Mrs Hudson's Xmas Collection
by Winter Winks 221
Summary: My response to the Sherlock Holmes Advent Calendar Challenge 2016! Enjoy reading, everyone and please review!
1. In the Absence of Snow

Prompt 1

From mrspencil: No snow yet, and Watson is sad but tries to hide his disappointment

...

CRACK!

"Watson, would you be a good fellow as to tell me where your bag is?" I ask my fellow lodger, only to see Watson looking despairingly out of the window of our living room. I look down at my hand, which has a large cut on it and it is bleeding profusely. I give a deathly glare to the broken test tube on my work surface, before I turn back to my flatmate.

"Watson, my dear fellow, I am in need of your medical assistance." I argue, grudgingly- which gets his attention, as his shoulders stiffen, and he rises from his seat.

"Good heavens, Holmes, what have you done to your hand?" He asks, looking at the blood dripping all over Mrs Hudson's Persian rug.

"A test tube snapped in my hand." I scowl; it is surprisingly stinging, considering I have been on the verge of Death itself on numerous occasions. "How many times have I told you that you always see, Watson, but never observe?"

He ignores my question, which is unsurprising. "Well, I shall tend to that for you- Mrs Hudson!" He calls.

"Yes doctor?" Our landlady pokes her flushed face round the door, wisps of hair flying free from her cap, and I wince inwardly.

"I am sorry to bother you, Mrs Hudson, but could you possibly fetch some hot water and linen, please? Holmes here has had a catastrophe with a test tube."

"Oh goodness gracious! And I suppose I shall have to sweep the glass up too! Very well, Doctor Watson- I shall bring the water promptly."

"Thank you, dear lady." He answers, only for the door to slam loudly.

...

Once Mrs Hudson had brought the water and some clean linen –not to mention swept up the broken glass and disposed of it carefully- , she decides to go on a walk and get some fresh air.

"I shan't be long, Doctor. Do you or Mr Holmes require anything in my absence?"

"No thank you, Mrs Hudson- I'd hate to burden you when you are seeking some peace."

"You are a saint, Doctor." Mrs Hudson tells him, before throwing on her shawl and making her way outside.

Watson trudges back upstairs and his sudden change in pace suggests that something is bothering my friend.

But he disappears just as I am going to investigate the reason for his dull mood. I deduce it may have something to do with the weather, as he has been staring out of the window a lot recently, and he has been giving the sky hopeful looks. I know that look.

He is wishing for snow. It will not happen, however. In order for that to happen the air has to be cold enough to form frozen crystalline water, before it precipitates from clouds.

I sit down in my armchair and reach for my pipe, although I curse in fluent French when I realise I cannot find the matches anywhere in my vicinity. Continuing to mumble curses, switching between French, German and a small amount of Tibetan, I recollect I last lain them on the mantel- only they were not there. I do not recall moving them, and my memory is no trifling matter- I treat it carefully.

Realising that we have either ran out, or that Watson has them, I grudgingly stamp over to the door to bellow for my landlady- until I realise she is not there.

Grabbing one of the linins, I wrap it round my hand and make my way downstairs.

...

Whomever had come up with the concept of the Seven Sins, has clearly forgotten the most audacious one of all, besides murder and rape- intruding on a woman's kitchen- especially Mrs Hudson's.

Everything was askew, and I now feel my hairs prickling up on end as I realise the worst.

Deciding on a strategic retreat, I was far too busy observing for our landlady's return, that alas, I neglected to observe that my shoelaces had come undone, until it was too late.

...

"Holmes, for Heaven's sakes, what are you doing now? First you disappear from our living room, and now I hear the most tremendous racket! I swear, Holmes, you are a man of impossibility! Why it's no wonder"-

The rant is cut off – first, by the door creaking open, and then the sounds of hopeless mirth echoing off the walls of Mrs Hudson's kitchen.

"What is it, Watson? Why are laughing at me?" I demand.

"Why, old chap- you're covered in flour!" He splutters, unable to look at me without the risk of keeling over.

Sure enough, I am coated head to toe in flour.

"I am not amused, Watson." I quote, from England's finest monarch, and I rise, sending flour tumbling to the floor. "If you dare say it, Watson, my revenge will be swift and yet momentous, I can assure you."

"You look like a snowman, Holmes!"

The next day, I continued to deny any knowledge in why my friend was sporting a makeshift carrot nose stuck tightly to his own.

"I did warn him," I chuckle, even though I was helping Mrs Hudson tidy her kitchen and put it back to rights.

But at least now, my Boswell has stopped moping about the weather. He's plotting revenge against me- I can see it in his eyes as he looks at me from over the rim of his teacup.


	2. Holmes and Highland Dancing

From Aleine Skyfire: Holmes gets a new hobby. Watson wishes he'd stop.

...

"Holmes!" I hiss in despair, but I am instantly drowned out in the sounds of bagpipes and fiddles. I would normally regale in listening to fine Scottish music, but I am only deeply ashamed and embarrassed right now.

Holmes and I are away on a case in Glasgow, along with our good friend, Inspector G. Lestrade. We are up here investigating a mysterious murder of an intelligent and wealthy doctor; two young ladies; an older gentleman in his sixth decade; and some innocent pigeons next to the bodies. Each pigeon had a small pearl in its beak, and the Scottish Constabulary did not know what to make of it.

They sent a telegram to Lestrade, who was willing to come up and investigate, and he was allowed to invite two other gentlemen; hence our involvement.

Lestrade just laughs as I put my notes away. "He's enjoying himself, isn't he?" He remarks, taking a sip of his beer.

"I heard he was taking up lessons back in London, but I didn't realise"-

The music ends, and the dancer on stage bows to the cheers of the patrons of the pub.

"I'm not- why the deuce is he"-

"Oh, leave the man alone, Doctor- it's rare to see him actually do anything besides playing his violin or smoking."

I hear someone sit down next to me, and I swing round to find my friend, Sherlock Holmes, in a kilt, sporran and clunky black shoes.

He grins.

"I'll order another whiskey, please!" He trills, slapping some money on the counter.

"There ye are, laddie," The bartender growls, handing over a whiskey glass filled with amber liquid. "Say, ye're looking a bit blootered noo, if ye ken fit I mean. Maybe you sit down a while."

I turn to Lestrade, feeling all of the despair in the world overwhelm me.

"You got to admit, Doctor, Holmes isn't half bad a dancer when drunk." The inspector remarks.

"I'm just worried about him doing something stupid." I recall the great detective flinging his legs wildly on stage, and I wince. "Well, something even stupider."

"And noo, we hae the great Sherlock Holmes himself' dancing the Highland fling as oor guest!" Someone shouts, and everyone laughs and cheers as Holmes throws himself into the next dance.

I suddenly wish we were at home, dealing with his smelly, infernal experiments.

Why couldn't he take up gardening instead?


	3. A Murder in Bath

From Wordwielder: Bath

This prompt is an unusual one for me- it's based on a real life murder case that took place in Glasgow, in December 1908, an 83 year old spinster named Marion Gilchrist bludgeoned, and a valuable diamond brooch stolen. A German Jew named Oscar Slater was accused of the robbery and murder. However, our dear Mr Arthur Conan Doyle employed his famous detective's methods to the case and he pleaded on behalf of Slater's innocence.

This story is based on that crime, with some creative liberties taken with it. I only own the Tears of St Peter and the Heart of Gabriel. Enjoy!

...

"Are you sure you can help me, Mr 'Olmes?" A Cockney accent pleads my friend and colleague in the depths of one of our armchairs near a roaring fire. He eyes it nervously, as if he has a moral obligation to avoid any associations with the Devil.

"Now, I am positive I will be able to solve this case for you, Mr Stracker." A smooth, calm voice replies in an assuring fashion, smoke wafting from a beech wood pipe hanging idly from his lips.

"But if they find me guilty, Mr 'Olmes, I'm a dead man! I'll be hung from the gallows!" The client pleads, shrinking further still into the armchair's fabric.

"I am aware of the law and its punishments, thank you. But, nonetheless, you have my word as a gentleman that I will help you."

"Oh, fhank ye, Mr 'Olmes, and God bless ye!" The man exclaims in relief, wiping perspiration off his shining, flushed forehead.

"Now, now, there is no need for that. I shall start the investigation promptly." MY companion reinforces politely, as he rises to shake Mr Stracker's hand.

Once our client had gone, I began to wonder what would happen on our next adventure. It had been too long since either of us had had anything of interest to do.

"Watson, I trust you have nothing planned this afternoon?" He asks.

"No, certainly not." I answer. "I have not anything planned for nearly two weeks, Holmes."

"Good, because I need you at my side, as always." He shoots me a wry smile. "We are due to go into Bath via the 10.45 train from Paddington Station this morning, so be sharp, Watson."

"Shall I bring my revolver?" I question, dutifully. There had been several occasions I had brought it with me, and yet have nothing happen; and once, when I made the mistake of not bringing it with me, Holmes and I were held prisoner for three days, along with Inspector Stanley Hopkins, Holmes' mentee.

Holmes considers the question thoughtfully.

"Bring your bag." He answers evasively.

I deduce from that statement that Holmes is anticipating something happening in Bath, so I decide to take his answer as a yes. I grab both items and we set out.

...

Once we had arrived at Paddington Station by cab, embarked the train and set off to Bath Spa Train Station about approximately two hours away from London, Holmes sits with his pipe, smoking thoughtfully. I stare at my friend, hoping that he had had some idea of the grisly business we were dealing with.

"Well, do you have any ideas, Holmes?" I ask, hopefully.

"I do not use ideas, Watson- I use logic and deductive reasoning." He reminds me, sternly. "However, I shall recount the facts of this case, Watson. Firstly, at 3 o' clock in the afternoon, we have Hattie Parker, the maid of the wealthy and affluent Mary Christion; leave the room to answer the door. Only, the person who rang the bell was absent when she arrived. When she returned, she found Mrs Christion dead on the floor. She had been strangled and beaten, and within nine days the police arrest our client, Mr Henry Stracker."

"Yes, I have this written down." I answer.

"Mr Stracker denied his involvement in the murder, as he was out of town at that time." Holmes continues. "So far, there has been no evidence to say that he did not commit the crime- however, there is something else I am concerned about." He continues.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Have you ever heard of the Heart of Gabriel?" He asks me, to which I shake my head.

"I'll explain the matter to you later." He tells me, after which we descend into a customary silence, and he does not speak one word to me until we disembark at Bath over two hours later, when he announces our next destination.

"We are going to ..." He informs me. "We are to meet a relative of Miss Christion who shall tell us all about her, and then, at quarter past three, I hear that Wilma Norman-Neruda is due to play a concert at the Theatre Royal."

...

After speaking to Miss Christion's relative- a son of a cousin she knew in her younger years, named Matthew McCrystal. He explained to us that Miss Christion was very wealthy, and owned many precious and expensive items of jewellery, including the Heart of Gabriel, and the Tears of St Peter. Once we conclude our discussion, Holmes and I catch a cab, where he immediately lets out an infernal sound.

"It appears my suspicions were correct, Watson. I am afraid that the possession of those stones has led her to an inevitable break in- and fatally, her death."

"But what would a thief want with a diamond brooch and sapphire earrings?" I ask.

"Why else, Watson?" He retorts, chewing on his pipe in thought.

"Money?" I venture.

"Possibly. But we must do some further investigating before we start piecing this mysterious little affair together."

I hope we could grab some lunch first, as I am feeling rather famished- but Holmes is not the sort of man to concern with feasting during cases.

Unfortunately, Holmes is quick to notice we are running late for the concert, and so we hurry towards the Theatre Royal by cab.

In that case, another large supper for me. But I am curious as to find out whom is the culprit behind this affair...


	4. Carols and Amity

From Aleine Skyfire: Watson talks Holmes into going carolling.

...

"No, nein, hет and nei, Watson!" The detective growls. "I shall not leave these rooms to go and... _Sing_." He hisses vehemently, speaking the last word as if he was saying Moriarty's name out loud.

"Come on, Holmes, it is for a good cause," I wheedle. "Besides, Mrs Hudson will have you under her feet with her winter cleaning. You would be better off going out, Holmes."

"But I refuse to go carolling!" He protests angrily.

"Well now you're acting like a child!" I counter. "Stamford was the one who came up with the idea to sing carols and collect donations for children in hospital and the workhouse, and if you refuse to show an ounce of human kindness, Holmes, I shall leave without you this instant!"

I storm out of our rooms, still muttering to myself angrily as I stab my arms through my jacket sleeves, fasten my scarf round my neck and ask Mrs Hudson if she is ready to go too, for I only used her cleaning as a ploy to get my friend to go with me.

"Is Mr Holmes not coming, Doctor?" She asks me in concern.

"No he jolly well isn't!" I growl, before I check my temper. "I do apologise Mrs Hudson- I did not mean to be so cross."

"I know Doctor Watson- Mr Holmes can be very trying at times." She agrees, taking my hand and patting it comfortingly. "He is, however, a man of surprises." She adds, with a smile on her face. Puzzled, I turn round to find the detective frozen on the stairs.

"I thought you weren't coming, Holmes?" I question suspiciously.

He coughs awkwardly. "Well, I said I was not leaving to sing." He reminds me. "But, if you are so willing, I can play music on my violin."

"That is a very generous offer, Holmes- that will be much appreciated. I am sorry about losing my temper with you back there."

"You are forgiven, dear boy - what is done is done. Besides, it was what you said that made me decide to bring my Stradivarius with me." He informs.

Mrs Hudson winks at me, and I grin remorsefully.

...

Once the three of were ready to go, we head out to meet Lestrade, Hopkins, Gregson and Stamford outside Scotland Yard. We arrive about two minutes later than planned, but they were happy to see us.

"Ah, Holmes, Doctor Watson- and dear Mrs Hudson!" Lestrade greets us warmly as he shakes our hands.

"How did you get Mr Scrooge here to come?" Gregson asks me, pointing towards my friend with his thumb.

I just shrug my shoulders, reluctant to press the point.

"I am awfully glad you came, Mr Holmes." Inspector Hopkins spoke. "I can see you are planning to play your violin rather than sing tonight."

"Well deduced, Hopkins." Holmes speaks. "I have no fondness for singing carols. Or indeed singing altogether."

"Why- do you sound like a sick cat?" Lestrade probes teasingly.

My friend snorts in indignation, and I decide to intervene on both Mrs Hudson's and the holiday's behalf, before they both get locked up by Hopkins and Gregson for disorderly conduct in front of Mrs Hudson and of course bodily assault.

"Now, now, there is no need for fisticuffs, Holmes." I tell him. "I do not desire to confiscate your violin from you."

"Why must you treat me like a child, Watson?"

"Well, if you pay attention to your behaviour now, I think that will answer your question." I retort- only for a snowball to hit me in the face.

"Oh Lord- and we haven't even started this wretched carol singing yet!" Groans Stamford. "How often do they quarrel, Mrs Hudson?"

"Very often, I'm afraid- with the inspectors, that is and occasionally with each other." She replies wearily. "I just wish they would stop this misconduct at once!"

Unexpectedly for me, it is Hopkins who saves the day, by humming the tune of 'Silent Night' before beginning to sing quietly.

"Silent Night

Holy Night

All is calm

All is bright,"

Up to this point, I had been trying to stop Holmes and Lestrade from fighting, unsuccessfully- not to mention the fact I had to keep Gregson from unnecessarily intervening. But I could not help but let my guard down on hearing the lad sing. He sounds like an angel- albeit a shy, quiet one, not like the cheery, youthful inspector Holmes and I knew best.

"Round yon virgin

Mother and child

Holy infant so tender and mild

Sleep in heavenly peace

Sleep in heavenly peace."

Holmes and Lestrade stop fighting too, and are instead gazing at Hopkins in awe, before the latter joins in on the second verse, along with Mrs Hudson, Inspector Gregson, Stamford, and myself. As for the sleuth, he fumbles with the catches on his violin case before bringing out his most prized possession. He plays a beautiful melody which weaves itself in time to our carol.

"Silent Night

Holy Night

Shepherds pray at the sight

Glory streams from heaven afar

Heavenly sing hallelujah

Christ the Saviour is born

Christ the Saviour is born

Silent Night

Holy Night

All is calm

And all is bright

Round yon virgin

Mother and child

Holy infant so tender and mild

Sleep in heavenly peace

Sleep in heavenly peace

Silent Night

Holy Night

Sleep in heavenly peace,"

By the time we reach the last six lines of the carol, I realise that, amongst our odd choir, we had gathered a new voice- a deep, rich voice, and it was one I knew all too well.

As our gathered audience applauded and threw pennies and shillings into the inspectors' hats, I turn to face Holmes, who is behind me.

"Don't. Say. It." He growls.

"I just want to say thank you for your support, Holmes. That was a wonderful piece you played." I smile at him, and I feel uplifted to see the gesture returned- albeit a much smaller one.

"Merry Christmas Holmes,"

"Merry Christmas, my dear Watson." He replies, in a softer tone.

We allow our fingers to interlock with each other and we squeeze hands at the same time.


	5. Mockingbirds in Mayfair

From cjnwriter: Crossover of your choice!

This crossover is between Sherlock Holmes (obviously!) and one of my favourite novels, To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee. Obviously, only the idea belongs to me.

Enjoy!

...

"How may we help you, my good man?" Holmes asks as he smokes his pipe and observes the other man sitting across from him. He immediately deduces that the stranger is an American in his 50s, a father, non -smoker, non-drinker, avid reader, short-sighted, a widower, has a brother- who happens to be a doctor-, a sister, and is himself a lawyer by occupation. However, he can also tell that this man is very intelligent- not otherworldly, like himself, but definitely smart for his occupation. He speaks these deductions aloud, thrilling myself, as always, as well as impressing Mr Finch- and two other members of our peculiar audience.

Standing beside him, on either side, are two children- one boy and a girl. I stand besides Holmes, looking rather bemused by the situation- so too does our client.

"Well, Mr Holmes, today just started like any other. I was eating breakfast, when my servant, Calpurnia brought the mail in. I received a mysterious letter which read only 'Enjoy your day- it wouldn't be like any other- Signed, J.' and we somehow ended up on your street, and in your...time era, Mr Holmes."

"Can you believe it, Scout? We're really meetin' Mr Sherlock Holmes himself!" The boy speaks excitedly.

"Aw, smoke and fire, Jem, must you get so worked up about it?" The girl argues.

"So, Holmes, how do you suggest we help Mr Finch and his children?" I ask.

"I have no idea, Watson." Holmes states blankly, looking at Atticus Finch.

"Would anyone care for some tea?" Mrs Hudson asks inquiringly.

"That would be very kind of you, Mrs Hudson." I answer, in as kindly a tone as I can manage. "I'll come down and help you."

"Aw shoot, I can go," Jem says. "Scout can come too."

"Do I hafta?"

Holmes just groans. He is clearly not enjoying the company of the children very much, and mouths to me just how eager he is to see them leave- and they do, with our maternal housekeeper.

"Holmes, you mustn't be rude!" I hiss, but Mr Finch hears us anyway.

"Do not concern yourselves, gentlemen. I am aware that as bachelors, you may not be entirely accustomed to children." Mr Finch assures us.

"No, no, my good man- I am used to children. I'm a doctor." I smile.

"My younger brother is a doctor." Mr Finch reflects, smiling sadly. "He means a lot to me."

"I...I see." Holmes answers, looking at me. "I too have a brother- except he is in government business. A minor branch of it, you see."

"Poppycock," I mutter. "Holmes, we went over this."

But Holmes glares at me, and I fall silent again. "Well, Mr Finch. I have very little experience with time alterations, but I shall do my best to help you."

"Thank you- I appreciate the trouble." Mr Finch answers.

Just then, Mrs Hudson returns with Jem and Scout, each yielding a tray- Jem staggers under one with our teapot and several teacups, whilst Scout fumbles about slightly with a plate of biscuits.

"Such delightful children," She remarks fondly. "Though young Scout does not act, well, ladylike."

"That's Scout for you." Atticus replies dryly. "But I do not wish to force Scout to be a mould of society. I am aware of how impressionable young minds can be, and I want use that time to help her find herself, rather than impose expectations of behaviour and tradition on her."

"You're a very modern man, Mr Finch." Holmes remarks, surprised.

"I just want what I feel is best for my children, even if I get a lot of disagreement for it." He manages to smile wryly at us.

"Hey, Atticus, do you know what's happened yet?" Scout asks eagerly.

"Sorry, baby, but we're well and truly stuck here." Mr Finch replies. "But I am positive that there is a chance that we can go home soon."

"Say, Mr Holmes, there's an officer comin' up those stairs yonder." Jem nods towards the door, much to the astonishment of me and Mrs Hudson. No one else seemed as surprised about the matter.

"How the deuce did he"- I ask but Holmes grins wickedly at the sound slowly getting louder and louder on the stairs.

"That is indeed an officer- in fact; our dear Lestrade is here to pay us a visit, Watson." He gives Jem a small smile. "How did you deduce that, my boy?"

"Well, it ain't difficult, Mr Holmes- why, even if he sounds different from his colleague, they've got a quickstep to them, as though they're prompt for action, even when they're not." He beams bashfully at us.

"Hm, well noted. You are an undeniably intelligent fellow, Jem." Holmes nods approvingly. "Come, I shall show you my chemistry experiments- and your sister as well."

"That's fine," Mr Finch tells him. "Just be careful you two." He reminds his children, "and do not touch anything unless you are allowed to."

By the time our guests had to leave a few hours later to find a hotel for the night, Holmes remarks that the Finches were not a bad sort.

Just a strange but loving sort.


	6. Burgled

From mrspencil: 221B is burgled

...

"GOODNESS GRACIOUS!"

My flat- that I now have no tenants boarding in, as one is married, and the other dead- is more upturned than I had ever recall seeing it. Papers have been thrown into every nook and cranny of the living room; books are hanging off the shelves; furniture upturned and destroyed; and there is a very noticeable space on one of the bookshelves.

Running downstairs, I scrawl out a curt message on a scrap piece of paper on my kitchen table, and then I hurry outside and catch Wiggins, and ask him to deliver the note. Once he runs off, I then dash back inside and write out another message, and after catching Owen, I ask for it to be delivered to Scotland Yard.

He dashes off, spindly legs attempting to keep up with his heart.

'How could this happen?' I wonder, as I feel tears prick at my eyes. I begin to wipe them away with a weathered hand- and through my tears; I espy a tall figure jump out of a cab I had not seen. Hurriedly paying the fare, the figure rushes to me and takes my hands in his own.

"Are you hurt, Mrs Hudson?"

God bless that man. Doctor Watson is a living angel, if I ever saw one.

…

I wring my hands as the good doctor stands by my side whilst Inspector Lestrade, Inspector Gregson and Inspector Hopkins all investigate the scene about half an hour later.

"Holmes' scrapbook is gone!" Watson exclaims, anguished. "I cannot believe this...atrocity! Who did it?"

"Well, I deduce he was short, stocky and had a limp." Hopkins reports. "You see those footprints on the floor?"

Black, sooty footprints, entangled with mud, were littering my fine carpet. They were of an uneven gait, and they were very emphasised indeed.

"Well, it-it certainly fits your deductions, Hopkins." Doctor Watson states, hollowly.

"Oh Doctor, I'm so sorry." I say. "I went to the shops and then I met a friend on the way back here- If only I'd got back here sooner, this might not have happened."

"It's alright, my dear, it's not your fault." Watson answers, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. "There's not much that can be done about it now. I am, however, angry at whoever had the nerve to do this to the memory of my dearest friend- the greatest man I ever knew"-

His shoulders begin to shake with sobs, and his hand loosens from my shoulder.

"Don't worry Doctor- more often than not; something always happens to the culprit at hand." Inspector Lestrade offers, looking a mixture of sympathetic and uncertain.

I certainly hope so, but I say nothing, and instead go to put the kettle on for the good doctor and our guests.

They're all I have left.

….

Two years after this unfortunate event, I take a tray of tea and scones to the living room of 221B. The sound of hearty laughter echoing from the open door upstairs fills my soul with warmth, and I knock on the door.

"Come in!"

I enter, smiling. 

"Tea for you, gentlemen." I announce.

"Thank you very much, Mrs Hudson." Doctor Watson announces.

"Yes, much appreciated." Mr Sherlock Holmes adds, flashing me a rare smile of gratitude. I hesitate- should I tell Mr Holmes about the burglary? He has been back for only two days, and yet it feels like a dream- especially after three long years of him not being here.

"Mr Holmes, while you were gone, something terrible happened." I begin.

"If you are talking about the burglary, Mrs Hudson, do not be alarmed. I was responsible for it." He confesses bluntly.

"You did it, sir?"

"I master minded it, yes. But I actually got someone to break in for me." He explains. "As you can see, the scrapbook is where it belongs- but I apologise for the mess that got left behind."

I feel my face grow hot as he explains the situation. I take a deep breath, and I prepare my infamous lines I have told him time and time again until three years ago.

"Mr Holmes, you truly are the worst tenant in all of London!"

"I would rather be your worst tenant than not your tenant at all, Mrs Hudson." Mr Holmes adds, in a note of sporadic sentimentality.

That man has a way of either increasing my heart rate….or warming it, in his own eccentric way. I hadn't the heart to kick him out after that. I still haven't, though only the Lord knows what he'll do next...


	7. The Vampires of Tower Hamlets- Part 1

From Aleine Skyfire: Vampires.

...

"This is a bit quiet, isn't it?" The good doctor only receives an elbow in the ribs for his woeful attempt to break the silence. "Holmes, must you do that?"

"Shush, Watson!" Another voice snaps in the darkness.

"Any sign of the robbers yet, sir?" A third voice, much more innocent sounding than the previous two, asks an older man next to him.

"Not yet, lad, but we'll be lucky before dawn- I bet on it!" The man exclaims triumphantly.

"Not blooming likely, Lestrade!" A fifth voice retorts.

Sherlock Holmes, his companion Doctor Watson, and three Scotland Yard inspectors: Giles Lestrade; Stanley Hopkins and Tobias Gregson, were hiding on a stakeout near the Tower of London.

"Great, you just had to invite Mr Holmes out, didn't you?" Gregson complains to Lestrade.

"You know him, Gregson, he would have interfered anyway!" His colleague hisses. "I'm just saving us the trouble of having him jump out at us from nowhere!"

The other three men share a look of exasperation as Gregson and Lestrade start squabbling again.

"How long will this last?" Watson asks.

"It could last for a while, sir." Hopkins replies. "They have a tendency to do that, Doctor Watson."

Holmes, impatient, cuffs both men round their heads. "Do you want to give the game away?" He hisses, in snake-like tones.

"Look, I see shadows, sir!" Hopkins points.

"That must be them! Quick!"

The five men prepare to get going- only for them to get themselves tangled up with each other, and by the time they had got out of it, they had lost sight of the perpetrator's.

"Drat! We've lost them!" Gregson snarls. "This one's on you, Lestrade!"

"No it's not!" The other inspector argues, going red in the face and glaring daggers at his infuriating colleague, oblivious to the glares e was receiving from everybody else.

"Sirs, please! We have two very dangerous and a traitor to the Queen to catch, and you're both squabbling, like, like..." Hopkins falters, unwilling to insult his superiors.

"Like bloody schoolboys!" Watson roars, much to the surprise of the others- especially Holmes, whose jaw dropped lower than everyone else's. "Hopkins is right- these men are dangerous and they must be stopped before they can steal the Queen's ravens!"

"Yes, you're –ahem! - quite right, gentlemen." Lestrade blusters awkwardly.

And with that, they forge on, determined to catch the famed thieves, known as the 'Vampires of the Tower Hamlets' as they had been raiding the area a lot lately.

...

Once inside the Tower, the five men split up; Gregson goes with Hopkins, and Lestrade is stuck with the Baker Street duo.

"Well, we better clear it, before Lestrade attempts to trick us onto going with Mr Holmes!" Gregson says, and, with a faithful Hopkins beside him, he runs over to the 'Bloody Tower' whilst the other three head to the White Tower.

...

"Gosh, it's cold in here, sir!" Hopkins remarks, feeling his arms turn to stiff blue rods as he plods along up the stone stairs of the 'Bloody Tower' behind his older colleague. "It's also...also a bit spooky looking, isn't it?" He asks nervously.

"It doesn't surprise me in the least, lad- why, my history teacher drilled it in me that this is the very tower the two 'Princes of the Tower' were held- King Edward V and his little brother Richard- both smothered by their uncle, Richard III! The guards claim their ghosts haunt this tower, looking for rescue, but it never comes..."

"Err...sir..."

"What is it, Hopkins? You're not afraid of a silly little ghost story, are you?"

"No-no sir- actually, I'm more afraid of the ghost that's behind you."

"What the bloody hell are you talking"- But Gregson's impatient cursing and grumbling is suddenly cut short by a loud:

BANG!

All Hopkins could see before he blacked out was the stone stairs, and his fellow inspector's unconscious body.


	8. The Vampire of Tower Hamlets - Part 2

From cjnwriter: Some Irregulars end up having an unexpected adventure...

Warning: Yes, there's one here. There's a lot of swearing in this one- compared to my other responses, and there is a character death at the end- not canon.

Only Juliet Hawkfair, James Williams, Peter Meaklim, Arthur Fogg and Rosalind Shaw belong to me. Everyone else- Conan Doyle.

...

"…And, according to legend, the vampires leave the Tower of London and they go swoopin' round, lookin' fur innocent victims to bite…"

"Bleddin' butchers!" Exclaims Juliet Hawkfair, and her eyes cross - they always did when she was excited for some reason or other.

"Ah, leave her be, James- you'll scare the livin' daylights out of her and the other Irregulars." Wiggins glares at the boy standing next to Juliet- he is two years and a month younger than Wiggins, but is also a head taller than him.

"Ach, I ain't scarin' her none, Wiggins- I was jist tellin' her a story."

"I says, leave it." Wiggins states firmly, glaring at the younger lad, who just squirms uncomfortably.

"Fine- I'll drop it." But a naughty plan concocted in James' head- he decided to try and scare the other two. "Actually, I guess you wouldn't care if I told you I was goin' to see these vampires…again." He said boastingly.

"Cor, you've seen 'em 'fore?" Juliet asks, brushing aside a lock of her matted brown hair. "I wanta come too, and sees 'em for myselves"

"Oh, did I mention that one of the vampires targets young virgins?" James questions mischievously.

"James!" Wiggins is shocked at his companion's atrocious behaviour, and glares at him whilst folding his hands across his chest- a habit often used by Holmes when interrogating the more stubborn and hot- spirited Irregulars for any reason.

"I don't bleddin' care- I'm comin' wi' you!" Juliet declares haughtily.

"No, you're not- and you're not goin' anywhere, either." The leader adds to James, with an emphasised snarl at the end.

…

Later that night, James jumps out from the ground floor window of the hovel he and the other Irregulars slept in, and waits until Juliet climbs out after him.

"You know the way to the Tower of London?" She asks him, suspiciously.

"Of course- follow me!"

So the two children ran across London, keeping in mind to avoid the men in uniform patrolling the streets by ducking in alley and camouflaging in shadows.

….

Soon, they arrive- where they see no other than their employer, Sherlock Holmes himself! He was talking to Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard in the grounds.

"Hopkins and Gregson should have been back an hour ago!" Grumbles Lestrade, looking at his pocket watch and glaring at the little gold trinket, whilst tapping his foot with untold agitation at the loss of not one, but two, of his most loyal men.

"I fear, gentlemen," Mr Holmes announces, "that the remaining members of our little cavalcade have fallen victim to the Vampires of the Tower Hamlets."

"What a lark! Them ruddy inspectors will have a close up encounter of the vampires of the Tower!" Breathes Juliet excitedly. "Div ye think they're still alive?"

But the colour drains from James' face. He is reluctant to admit to the girl that her excitement was based on something that was actually false. "Well, I'm sure they are. Maybe they're jist...gettin' tortured."

"Then we better rescue 'em!" Juliet grins, but James stops her before she emerges from their cover.

"Don't! We'll...erm...we'd better go a different way. Don't want no vampires knowin' we're here." He lies.

Thankfully, Juliet accepts the lie without question, and the two sneak into the grounds due to a defect in the walls.

...

Meanwhile, through the streets of London, two swift bare feet splash into puddles, outmanoeuvre horses' steps; silently weep tears of blood against dirt streaked soles. Cursing is heard well above little cut toes, as the owner of both the feet and the voice continues his lone journey...right into an Inspector's rear end.

"Oof!"

"Well, well, well- what have we here?"

Wiggins looks up- straight into the wrathful eyes of none other than Inspector Bradstreet, who is covering Lestrade's night shift.

"Sorry 'Spector- didn't mean insolence- it's jist- my friends- they're in trouble."

"Whoa, whoa, lad- what are you talking about?"

So Wiggins has to wait until he has his breath back and tells the baffled inspector about how his friends- Juliet Hawkfair and James Williams- had sneaked off in the middle of the night, and were heading for the Tower of London. Bradstreet blanches at this.

"But Lestrade told me he, Gregson and Hopkins are stopping some raven thieves!" He exclaims, before his face firms into one of decision. "Right, sonny, head to the tower and give Mr Holmes and Lestrade the message. I'll head to Scotland Yard and come back with reinforcements."

"Right ye are, sir!" The unlikely duo split up again, and Wiggins once more continues his journey to the Tower.

...

After another half hour of running- or what felt like it, anyway- Wiggins finds himself outside the Tower of London itself- but he has no time to admire its beauty or wonder at its bloody history. He has to find his employer.

"Mr 'Olmes, Mr 'Olmes!"

"Hey, what's that ruffian doing here?" Inspector Lestrade demands. "Holmes, I thought you told your errand boys not to interfere with our case."

"I did indeed, Inspector."

The cold, detached, aloof tone of the sleuth frightens Wiggins out of his wits more than the intimidating Lestrade, but he must help his friends, so he stands firm, and looks right at the detective.

"Wiggins, go home-now, please." Watson tells him, firmly but as polite as ever. "We are in the middle of a very dangerous case."

"But, Doc"-

"Wiggins, I believe the good doctor has spoken." Lestrade reinforces, pointing the way Wiggins had come, but the detective lifts his hand.

"Hold your horses, Inspector. Wiggins has an urgent message for me- if he had not, why would he come out here? He is my most reliable Irregular, and therefore I can tell there is something else going on." He kneels to the boy's level, his lips welded to his trademark pipe. "Tell me, Wiggins- why are you here?"

"It's Juliet and James, Mr 'Olmes! They came 'ere to see 'em vampires for 'emselves!"

Lestrade curses.

"How do you know of this, Wiggins?"

"James said he was comin' here, sir- and Juliet wanted to come with him."

"Well that's just bloody great!" Lestrade roars furiously, with feeling. "First two of my men go missing and then you lose two of your Irregulars!"

"My dear Lestrade, I did not lose them- they were not my responsibility when they disappeared."

"For God's sake- you should stop playing the game and actually do some work!" Watson shouts. We have two innocent children and two good officers deep in the bowels of the Queen's castle, along with two bloodthirsty thieves and a traitor!"

"You know," Holmes says, after a pause. "You are absolutely right, my dear doctor. Come, we shall investigate the Bloody Tower."

So the three men venture back in the Tower, this time, they had brought Wiggins with them-after strict warnings about being careful.

...

Meanwhile, Gregson wakes with a groan- and freezes in horror when he sees Hopkins curled in a ball, shivering and whimpering. Blood is trailing across the floors, chilling his heart.

"Hopkins? Oh my God- Hopkins! What have those fiends done to you, man?"

Reluctantly crawling over to the younger man, Gregson's stomach churns when he sees long lines of blood streaming from open wounds on his arms, and two smaller wounds are on his neck.

"Bloody hell," Gregson swears. "Hopkins, are you alive?"

"...sir, please, make...make the pain stop..." Hopkins whimpers shakily, like a child who had had ten too many injuries on a sports field.

"I wish I could, old chum. Don't worry, help will arrive." Gregson soothes. "Don't lose faith yet."

"...okay, Gregson- I wouldn't," rasps the younger man.

Gregson rips a sleeve off his police uniform and attempts to bandage his friend's left arm- like how the good doctor had done to many soldiers- both in the army and the constabulary. He just tying it round in a knot when he hears voices coming from elsewhere in the Tower.

"That inspector was useless! Even after all I went through, he refused to say a word." A male voice hisses. "This is on you, Fogg! You told us we'd be safe from the police, and yet they're hot on our tails!"

"Relax, my dear Mr Meaklim- we will have our chance soon enough," Purrs a female voice, seductively, in a voice richer than honey and sweeter than sugar on cake. "So long as that dreaded detective is not pursuing us, we shall be in possession of the Queen's Ravens!"

"And why do you want smelly old birds?" A third voice asks whom Gregson presumes is Fogg.

"Fool! It is said that if the Queen's ravens are lost, then Britain will fall, and if the kingdom falls, so will the law. And then, we shall do as we please..."

"If you say so, Miss Shaw," Fogg answers. "But remember, I still expect my payment after this, or else I'll summon the Royal Guard!"

"What, and have you arrested on charge of treason? That wouldn't do, Mr Fogg. I thought you had more sense in that pretty head of yours..."

'Well, now I see why Holmes despises Irene Adler so much.' Gregson ponders- and then, he hears voices.

Only this time, these were child's voices.

...

Oh, I can't wait to see the vampires, James!" Juliet trills.

"Yeah- well, 'bout that- Juliet, I have somethin' I hafta say"-

Suddenly, they both hear a loud 'BANG!' followed by a thud of something hitting the floor.

"Are you out of your mind, Meaklim?! What were you thinking?!" A female voice shouts, loudly. "You killed him!"

"I know I killed him, woman! Now do me a favour and shut the hell up!" A male voice roars deeply in response. "I'll kill those inspectors too, so they don't sentence us to the wretched scaffold!"

James freezes- he hasn't been expecting this- and clearly, neither has Juliet, judging by the expression on her face.

"What do we do?" She whispers to James- and for the first time in his life, James has no clue. He always had some scheme, some half spun idea, or a complex plot whirring in his brain- but now, here he is, with a girl two months younger than him, only a door away from a murderer, two thieves, a dead body and two helpless inspectors ready to face death.

What else could he do?

"Well," he says at last, once his tongue is working again. "We go in and rescue them." He swallows a rising lump of tension. "I'll distract them, Juliet- you untie the Inspectors."

"Got it, guv!"

James cautiously turns the handle- and promptly falls sick at the sight of the blood in the room, both Inspector Hopkins, and of course that of the dead man.

Juliet pushes past him and runs in the room without thinking twice. Pulling out a scalpel she snaffled from Doctor Watson, she diligently saws at the ropes binding the two men- unaware of the fact that Meaklim had re-entered the room...

"JULIET- LOOK OUT!" James screams, and he dashes in- just as Meaklim fires his revolver, straight for Juliet's back.

...

"That was James' cry!" Wiggins gasps, halfway up the stairs, where they are resting due to Watson's leg wound playing up again. "He and Juliet must be in trouble, Mr 'Olmes!" He exclaims through cursing and leg rubbing.

"Indeed," Replies the sleuth, gravely. "Inspector, stay here with Watson. You wait too, Wiggins- I'll go on."

Holmes, after accepting Watson's revolver, runs up the stairs as fast as his long limbs would carry him, with his dark hair zig-zags across his cheeks as he reaches the top at long last, and immediately continues running.

"JAMES!" Juliet screams from a room ahead. "You bleddin' monster, you son of a-son of a whore- I'll kill you- I'll kill you!" She screams.

Holmes blanches, but hurries on, regardless- determined to catch the man responsible for so much pain.

...

Juliet finally frees the Inspectors, but her body is shaking with sobs of grief as she watches her friend beeld to death- the bullet intended for her had instead struck James in the back.

James Williams- the smartest boy next to Wiggins- she ever knew. James Williams, the boy who was the Moriarty in their games.

James Williams, her best friend. He took a bullet for her.

Suddenly she feels something drape her shoulders. Through her tear- blurred vision, she sees someone leaning over the boy, assessing his injury.

...

After Holmes has handcuffed the scoundrels responsible, he sacrifices his Inverness cape to her, and then attempts to preserve James' life until help arrives.

...

It comes.

Too late.

Watson still blames himself for what had happened, but Holmes is adamant that it is not the case. Even now, as he stands by a small grave, he watches Juliet lay down some weeds she had picked- nettles, thistles, daisies, clovers and others- and lays on his grave, next to some roses brought in from Mrs Hudson's garden, and some poppies by the Inspectors- particulary Hopkins and Gregson, who had survived the incident, and were still healing emotionally- and in Hopkins' case, physically.

James Williams is now at least four feet underground, in a small wooden coffin, with a bullet in his kidney- Watson could not save him. Although the man responsible for the pain is dead, Holmes, in a state of grief, is less reliant on using the Irregulars.

He couldn't bear to lose another one to crime- hearing James' dying words would be enough to haunt him to his own grave.

"Pro...protect her, sir. She's my...best...friend...My own...Watson..."


	9. A Christmas cookie, Doctor Watson?

From Book girl fan: Christmas Cookies.

...

I will never forget the moment when I discovered Holmes' secret talent- well, apart from Highland dancing, no longer a secret- regrettably. It turns out that- ah, but I am getting ahead of myself again. I shall begin from when I toss off my hat and throw my umbrella in the holder, feeling a huge and impounding headache consume my mind and my thoughts. My patients have been unusually trying today!

Which is why I am pleased to smell a particularly pleasant aroma wafting from Mrs Hudson's kitchen. "Whatever it is you're making, Mrs Hudson, it smells wonderful! Would you like any help?" I shout.

"No thank you, Doctor- I can manage!" She calls back. Satisfied, I retreat upstairs to read a book- and hopefully self-prescribe something for his infernal headache!

It is not until half an hour after this conversation when I hear the pitter- patter of feet thundering round in the kitchen. It sounds like the Irregulars. I chuckle to myself at the racket they are making- and then I freeze, realising my error.

I could have sworn Mrs Hudson had forbidden Holmes' juvenile agents to even enter the kitchen when she was baking. And she would never tolerate them stomping about like that! Besides, I just remembered- Mrs Hudson was away in Cornwall, visiting a friend! What a dunce I had been, dear reader.

But, I wonder, if I am here and dear Mrs Hudson is not even in London, then who can be in the kitchen?

Tiptoeing down, with my novel in one hand, I enter Mrs Hudson's flat, praying to God that she would forgive me for intruding.

But it turns out it would take more than mere prayers for her to forgive what had happened to her prized kitchen!

Flour is all over the floor and work surfaces, the table obscured by messy bowls, whisks, spoons...it's even worse than the mess in our flat!

And guess who's accountable for this disaster?

Sherlock Holmes himself- why does it not surprise me?

He is standing in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by three Irregulars, holding a baking tray of freshly baked..."Are those cookies?" I ask, in surprise, to which he sniffs indignantly.

"No, most certainly not, Watson! These are Christmas cookies!" He protests stubbornly. "How dare you suggest such an atrocity as me baking ordinary cookies?"

"Holmes, my dear fellow, they are just cookies." I tell him. "Oh Lord, arguing with you on such trivial matters is much worse than dealing with a delirious patient!"

"Well, just for that, you're not getting a Christmas cookie!" He says, petulantly. "My helpers can get one- if they help me clear this mess up- they still need to cool." He reminds them, on seeing their best hopeful expressions.

He looks at me, smirking.

"How do I know you're not experimenting on them, Holmes?"

"Don't be absurd, Watson! You are my only experimental instrument I'll need!" He says, with a smile. I cannot tell if he means that in a somewhat sentimental fashion or not, but I decide against asking any questions of my friend's strange sentiments.

"If I promise to not breathe a word to Mycroft, Lestrade, Gregson, Mrs Hudson, Stamford and Bradstreet; help you clear up this mess; and forget the last thing you said to me, will you allow me a coo-Christmas cookie?"

Honestly, the things I do to please this sanity- forsaken man.

But he agrees, and an hour after we start, we finish- and I bite into a crumbly cookie. It was almost as good as Mrs Hudson's own homemade wares.

No wonder he doesn't live with his brother- Mycroft will just force him to supply baked goods galore!


	10. Christmas of Grief

From Aleine Skyfire: Christmas during the Hiatus.

...

I sigh as I hang up a small silver bauble on our Christmas tree. My wife, Mary, looks at me, forlorn.

"John- you're thinking of him again, aren't you?"

"I can't help it, Mary!" I protest. "Christmas is the time for family and friends- and yet my dearest friend is dead and gone! I...I know he was often opposed to Christmas, but oh- how I'd give anything to hear him grumble about the sentiment of Christmas!"

Mary pauses thoughtfully. "You know, John- I think you should see Mrs Hudson, and keep her company this Christmas."

"But Mary, I couldn't leave you!" I gasp in amazement.

"I know, John. I do miss Mr Holmes dearly, and regard him as a brother, like you do. But Mrs Hudson knew him longer than I, and she has no one to share her Christmas with."

"You are right, my dear. I do feel wicked for saying that." I say, feeling downcast.

"Don't, John- you are entitled to your grief."

"Although, I do not think I can face 221B this year." As Mary is about to protest, however, I continue. "And I am sure she does not want to stay there, either- regardless of company. Why not invite her to spend Christmas with us?"

At first, my wife is speechless, and then she smiles. "Of course, dear- she can stay in the guest room. And I was thinking of inviting some friends to dinner, too."

What sort of friends?"

...

The friends turned out to be the Scotland Yard Inspectors: Lestrade, Hopkins and Gregson all came along with their wives; and some of my beloved wife's friends came calling too. Last, but not least, was dear Mrs Hudson, dressed in black clothes.

"Oh, may God bless you, Doctor and Mrs Watson! I do feel much happier staying here than back at Baker Street, with all my memories. But I promise not to be a burden during my stay."

I am astonished at these words. "Oh, dear Mrs Hudson- you are our guest!" I tell her. "You will never feel like a burden."

"John's right- besides, we do feel awful leaving you there in your grief, Mrs Hudson, and Christmas is meant to be a time of love and friendship."

...

We eat an exquisite Christmas dinner, cooked by Mary- and assisted by the ever tenacious Mrs Hudson-then we all sing a few carols in the living room, led by Hopkins, and afterwards, we decide to go on a walk to the cemetery where my friend was buried, as it was unfair to not do something for him at Christmas- even if he was...gone.

...

So we laid flowers, and we shared stories of the sleuth- good, bad, humorous, disastrous, downright absurd or just...well, stories of the Holmes we all knew and cherished.

I have one memory of Holmes I like to think of, when I'm sleeping or waking.

" _...Afghanistan, I presume?"_

It was the day we first met. It had been a day which held uncertainty for me, and I am glad. Not just of that day, but every day since. For Sherlock Holmes had existed. He changed my life- regardless of whether I wanted to strangle him or embrace him. I loved that man- he was my dearest and closest companion.

Right now, I only wish I can say sorry for leaving him in his final moments, in a moment of outright stupidity- from not being able to pick up on my friend's art of deduction.


	11. When Skies are blue, Life begins anew

From Book girl fan: Blue skies.

...

Ever since the day of James' death at the Tower of London, Juliet hasn't been the same. The Irregulars all noticed she was rapidly losing weight, and she cried more often than she cared to admit.

She was also constantly disappearing for long periods of time, often only either telling Wiggins, or not saying anything at all. Sherlock Holmes, however, knew where she went, and the other Irregulars didn't need their employer's deductive reasoning to know where she was.

What they wanted to know was why she went there. She always seemed to return in a worse state than when she left them.

...

One afternoon, even though it was one of the worst pea soupers ever witnessed, and the rain lashed down, scarring everyone with precipitation and stabbing them repeatedly in the face with cold- and Londoners fought for shelter- except Juliet, who was at James' grave, as per usual these days.

"I wish ye didn't bleddin' leave me, James," Juliet sobbed angrily. "Why did ye take the bullet for me?"

She plucked the nettles off the sides of his grave, not caring when her hands started burning out in a red angry mob of hives. She threw them aside, not caring anymore whether she herself lived or died- she missed her best friend so much.

"Juliet."

A small bob of her damp head revealed the esteemed sleuth himself, standing under an old black umbrella, holding a bouquet of violets in his other hand.

"What'cha doin', guvnor?" She asked through her tears.

"I am here, Miss Hawkfair, to visit my parents' grave. I figured I would find you here also." He explained aridly. You may join me; otherwise Watson shall lecture me for allowing a lady to catch her death of cold."

Juliet just shook her head and looked forlornly over at the big black stone- its mere presence was an ugly reminder of the fact that her friend's presence was no longer so.

"Miss Hawkfair, his death is not your fault. He merely died trying to save you." He spoke the words aloud which he should have done long ago.

"But why? Why did he die, sir? I know what he did, but"-

Blood filled memories curdled the detective's aridity. He remembered the blood pouring from the boy's kidney; he remembered wide, tear filled brown eyes pleadingly begging for God to take him away from his misery; he remembered the last words the boy had spoken aloud:

" _Pro...protect her, sir. She's my...best...friend...My own...Watson..."_

Those words had been haunting him still- and now, seeing Juliet so weak and miserable, he felt he had already failed the dead boy's last wish. Well, he had time to make things right- he had to, or else he could potentially lose another Irregular.

"How good are you at keeping secrets, Miss Hawkfair?" He asked, in his usual tone.

"Well, pretty good."

"Excellent," Replied Holmes, and he gave a small smile. "My mother once told me about how one of her favourite things after my grandfather died was watching the sky transition from grey rain clouds to a clear blue sky."

"Why?"

"She said it reminded her that even if you are still grieving, life is going on, and it must be continued, no matter how much it hurts to try and move on."

"She was a wise woman, guvnor."

"Perhaps, but I never did find out why she gave me and my brother our names Sherlock and Mycroft."

With that, the two watched as the clouds and the fog slowly dissolved away, leaving a bright blue sky high above London. They each thought about their lost loved ones, and how much they meant to them in their lives.


	12. Friends Don't Leave you in Jail

From Spockologist: "The bloody idiot." I whispered. "How could he do this to me?"

Okay, before I begin, I would just like to say a massive thank you to all who have reviewed, favourited and followed this story, and my other two as well. I'm so sorry I keep forgetting to thank you all personally, but your reviews are much appreciated!

On with the show!

...

I pace round my room, fuming and snorting like a maddened bull, or a vengeful criminal in a dark and damp cell in Scotland Yard.

Well, actually, the latter statement fits the bill perfectly.

As part of an investigation, I was required to go undercover for Holmes and scope out some information as to a new murder. I had agreed, in my keen naivety, thinking it required me to throw on a disguise and eavesdrop on some thugs in a lowlife tavern.

I did indeed have a disguise on- but that fool allowed me to be arrested by Scotland Yard officials! By our friend, Lestrade, no less!

"What'cha ere fur?" A Cockney voice asks me gruffly, on seeing my relentless campaign of annoyance for the man I call my friend and gets me into the most disastrous situations.

"I'm innocent!" I protest, forgetting my mission to seek information. In all honesty, dear reader, I did not give a hoot any longer. Holmes would have to find a new man to do this sort of thing, because I am not going to be hanged for false charges in the name of evidence seeking.

"Miscarriage, uh? I fought that you were the Satan of Stepney!" He tells me, eyes gleaming.

Suddenly, a man appears at my acquaintance's cell window, and says excitedly "Did you hear, Cecil?"

"Get on with it, Arthur! I ain't got all evenin'!" He roars.

"The Satan has struck again! He's all the way on the other side of London and meant to be in hiding, but someone recognised him so he slashed his face open and allegedly hid it in some farmer's sack of potatoes! And guess what else? Mr Sherlock Holmes himself is on the trail!"

"Aha- but this Satan chap is one of the hardest criminals to catch!" Chuckles Cecil. "That bloomin' jackass detective will be there for hours, I fink!"

I sink to my knees in despair. If this is true, I might not be let out until morning- and I do not wish to encounter Lestrade, Gregson or Hopkins anytime soon. "The bloody idiot." I whispered. "How could he do this to me?"

Friends might get you in jail, but they certainly don't leave you there. At least, that was what I always thought.


	13. Watson and Kairos

From Spockologist: Kairos

...

"Sherlock, as happy as I am to help you with your financial troubles, I think it is time you should consider a flatmate to split the rent."

"I don't want to!" The young man protests, barring his chest with folded arms and glaring at the older man before him with a hint of a pout thought forever lost to the long bygone days of youth. The older brother sighs.

"I am aware of that, old chap. But there are things that must be done, whether one likes it, or not. Believe me, my dear brother, you will find an accepting roommate."

"Who would share a flat with me, brother? I conduct experiments which can go unpredictably...wrong. The landlord at Montague Street did not appreciate my musical talents, and"-

"Sherlock, a flatmate is the most practical solution. I am aware you do keep to yourself, but it will not help you from sleeping on the streets, or..." He gives a rare, involuntary shudder, unwilling to think of what his little brother could end up sleeping in.

"Fine, I shall manage myself!" He fumes, grabbing his violin case and suitcase, before barging out of his brother's office in a huff, not caring for the fact he did not say goodbye.

But he is wrong.

Weeks later, the rent has –almost sneakily- gone up, and he is in despair. He eats little food as it is, and he cannot afford, with his meagre consulting detective practice, to keep paying the rent. He could face eviction- in fact, it is inevitable.

Which is why even though he does not believe in 'superstitious rubbish', he thanks his lucky stars that an acquaintance at St Bartholomew's has the answer to his problem. Even though that solution is a worn, exhausted man with a neat moustache and rumpled clothes- an army doctor, with a bullet wound to the shoulder, a tan, and is nearly as skinny as he.

At least he looks like an agreeable man. He is saved from eviction!

"Mr Holmes, meet Doctor John Watson."

The two shake hands, and little did they know, a partnership, a friendship- and even their own brotherhood, was set in stone.


	14. Holmes, Watson and King Robert I

From Sparky Dorian: Holmes encounters a visitor who claims to be from another time

...

I stare out of the window, willing for Watson to return. My mind has returned to a state of stagnation, and I resent it so. My dear doctor is my preferred cure for such a grave matter, but he is writing a journal. I do wish I knew where that wretched Morocco case was- I could do with something to 'while away' the boredom, and ensure my mind does not rot. I watch lazily as my friend leaves the room to go and retrieve his bag- but he freezes.

"Holmes, there is an axe yielding man downstairs," He tells me, he eyes wide, just as we both hear loud footsteps rattle the house.

Sure enough a man stomps in, and my heart suddenly quickens in shock at the sight. It...It cannot be so! This is illogical!

"Good afternoon, my good man," I say, as calmly and politely as I can, despite my disbelief at the strange sight before me. Had I taken an overdose and simply forgot about it? I deny it instantly, as I have no recollection of either taking any cocaine or even where I had left it. Watson must have taken it away.

That means... I am really seeing this. So is Watson

The visitor just growls at me.

I am certain now that this is actually happening. "Now, pray, tell me why you are here...your majesty. Or shall I call you Robert Bruce?"

"How do you know my name?" He roars, swinging his axe high. Knowing he would want an answer from me, I do not flinch once.

"Simple- I deduced it." I explain. Well, not entirely- I recognise him from history books I read in my boyhood. I wonder if Watson ever felt fascinated by this man in front of me.

He does not seem to understand what I meant, and instead he looks at me

"Ah, would you care for some tea, your majesty?" I offer, at once at a loss on how to address him. Watson just stares at me, with eyes wide and full of disbelief- even shock.

"But...but it can't be him, Holmes!" He exclaims.

"It is." I tell him, grimly, just as I hear someone at the door.

"Hello?"

"Oh curses- it's Mrs Hudson!" I panic, suddenly wondering how to explain our mysterious visitor away- especially considering he is armed with a battle axe. I do not wish for either my own or Watson's lives to end the same way as Sir Henry de Bohun's did- that is for sure.

"I'm coming up there, Mr Holmes!"

From behind me, I hear our Scottish visitor shift his battle axe from his left hand to his right. I try to use my tall physique to cover our guest, but in vain.

"Mr Holmes, why on earth is Robert the Bruce in our living room?!" An irate landlady demands, glaring at us both as though we had invited a Scottish axe yielding, murdering, manic usperer in our living room for tea.


	15. A Holmsian Love Story

From I'm Nova: What possessed the Holmes parents to name their children Sherlock and Mycroft?

...

"Holmes, could I ask you something?"

The detective looks up from his notebook and sees me standing next to him at his workbench, filled with smelly, sprawling and very colourful experiments and tinkling glassware. To my surprise, he gives me a fond smile, and nods.

"Of course, Watson- though technically, you have already asked me something." He answers wittily.

"Anyway, Holmes, whatever possessed your parents to name you and your brother Sherlock and Mycroft?" I ask bravely, uncertain my companion would appreciate such a personal question. However, he is dismissive of my doubts.

"There's actually a story behind that, old chap. I am uncertain, however, that it is one of interest to you."

My curiosity instantly piques. "I will find it interesting!" I exclaim. "That is your Christian name, my dear fellow, and I find everything about you interesting- you are not at all dull like me."

"You're not dull, Watson, and if you say that again, I'll challenge you to a round of fisticuffs." He warns, not looking at me now, but at a test tube filled with a greenish- yellow acid.

"I don't see how violence will establish your opinion of me, Holmes, but I shall endeavour to stop speaking as such." I tell him raising my hands in surrender.

"Good, Watson." He looks at my face and smiles at me earnestly. "Very well, if you must hear this anecdote so badly, Watson, I shall tell it to you." He adds. "Are you satisfied?"

"Not until I hear the story." I quip. He glares at me, and begins his tale.

...

"My mother was the daughter of a particularly esteemed squire in Yorkshire," Holmes begins. "She was a beautiful young lady, and was very gracious to all whom she met. By the time she was 20, her parents were considering whom she would marry, but she was a sentimental woman, and did not at all care for her potential suitors."

I was entranced by the story, but I was confused by how my friend's odd narrative was related to the origin of his and his brother's Christian names. "Holmes, I would like to ask- what has this to do with"-

"Hush, Watson. You cannot reach a conclusion to a case without the correct facts, can you?"

"No,"

"Precisely- now, where was I, old chum- ah, yes. My mother was not at all interested in many young men who came to the door- they were the sons, nephews and young cousins of my grandfather's friends and neighbours. He was absolutely furious with her, and he threatened her that she will marry within the year, or she will be disinherited."

"That is very harsh of him, Holmes." I say, surprised.

"Well, Watson- I'm afraid my family were not altogether kind people-save for a few exceptions." A tall limb suddenly shoots out, accidentally kicking my shin as it warms itself up again with a few jerky kicks and shakes.

"My apologies, Watson- my legs are not coping well with standing.

"You've been standing all day, you daft lunatic!" I tell him, sighing. We'll sit on the davenport, shall we? And for Heaven's sake, keep your legs to yourself this time- I did not agree to be your flatmate just to be kicked in the shins." I smile, however, just to show I am only intending to be humorous.

"Duly noted, Watson," He smiles back in agreement.

...

Once we settle on the couch, the sleuth resumes his story.

"My mother, although sweet tempered, was also stubborn and hot headed at times, and she decided to run away from home and become a governess." He grins. "This next part, however fanciful, Watson, has always been my favourite part as a boy. Do not question my views on sentimentality afterwards."

"Alright, Holmes," I sigh.

"She packed her few possessions, and escaped through her window. She ran out to the road by her father's farm, when she encountered a black stallion ready to rear up."

"What happened next?" I ask him in wonder, subconsciously scooting closer to my friend as I do so.

"Do stop being so infantile, Watson, I am getting there." He grumbles. "On the horse is a young man she's never seen in her life. His name was"-

"Siger Holmes." I deduce. In my general direction, he aims a mixed look of pride at my correct deduction, but annoyance I had interrupted the moment.

"And you call me infantile." I grumble, but I fall silent anyway, waiting for his next words.

"Yes. Anyway, my mother, as you should know already is Violet, was entranced by this stranger. He told her he was visiting London with his mother and uncle.

"Is this the grandmother that is the sister of Vernet?" I ask him.

"Correct again. It seems your sense of deduction is improving, my dear boy. He and she both talked a great deal- at first, he was worried after nearly trampling her with his horse, but he soon settled into polite conversation. By the time they left, they felt as though they had a lot in common. And they met up for every day they could after that."

"Oh, how delightfully romantic, Holmes!" I exclaim with a broad smile.

"Oh stop it, Watson. They decided on baby names before my father even proposed to her." He continued. "This was because they were admiring the view from a stile, near the mouth of a stream. The stream ran alongside the old farmhouse, and a small field, where some youths worked. They were the sons of my father's tenant farmers, and were not brilliantly educated. But they knew a lot about the farm, and one of them, a blond lad of fourteen years, was particularly good with my father's horse, so he was entrusted to look after him. He became a friend of sorts, and one day, on the stile by that field, they proposed."

"That is...unusual." I admit, baffled as always.

"Perhaps, but we Holmes members were always eccentric. You ought to know that by now. If you don't mind, doctor, I shall skip the wedding details- they are not relevant."

"But Holmes"-

"Well, not to answering your question. They named my brother Mycroft after the place my father had proposed to my mother."

"And you, Holmes?"

"I was named after the blond lad in the fields, Watson. His name, I cannot recollect, but my mother gave my Christian name as 'Sherlock' in honour of the fact that their friend had blonde hair."

With that, he lies back on the sofa, retrieves a pipe from his pocket, and lights it, before sitting there, deep in thought.

I stand from my chair, now seeking some tea from our landlady. But as I turn to ask Holmes if he wold also care for some tea, I see him staring into the fire, with the faintest twist of the lips to his face, in a rare moment of blissful recollections.


	16. Lestrade's Fantastic Day

From Sparky Dorian: Inspector Lestrade's best day ever.

...

Inspector Lestrade rarely has good days, ever. Usually, he somehow gets humiliated by colleagues and that uppity detective, Sherlock Holmes, or dealing with grisly murders.

So he is surprised when one day, he walks into the office, ready for his job- and finds out that he has somehow managed to finish his wretched paperwork the night before. Sure, Hopkins got blisters being his coffee supplier- but it was worth it! For him, anyway- he wasn't so sure about his colleague.

Thankfully, despite a slight limp, Hopkins bears him no grudge for the torturous rounds he made him do.

"My wife even told me to thank you, sir- she was a bit concerned about my weight." He says lightly, and the older inspector laughs.

He is relieved that the lowlife wretches have tucked away their knives, guns and machetes for today, as the worst he has had to deal with is vandals, a couple of muggers, and some drunkards. Hey, it might be a better day for Lestrade, but even a crime free day in London was pushing the limit. Still, he feels much happier now than he did before today.

He avoids being the butt of Gregson's usual quips today- which is unusual, until he learns that the man is off ill. Of course, he is sorry for his friend, but happy he doesn't have to deal with Gregson being a pain in the neck.

Later, after lunch with Hopkins and some other friends, Lestrade goes out on afternoon patrol with the young inspector, and the two chat idly as they stroll along- both bored with life and its inactivity. Soon they end up at Baker Street- the street which housed a particular resident of interest.

"Of course, we're not the only ones bored, are we? I do hope poor Watson's coping with the 'Beast of Baker Street.'" He chuckles.

"You mean Mr Holmes, sir?"

"Well, if I were to refer to Mrs Hudson in such a manner, I wouldn't live to see the light of day, lad," He grins. "Yes I do mean Holmes. He's usually raging at how there's no murders happening for him to solve."

"Shall we go and see how they're doing?" Hopkins asks his superior.

"No need, Hopkins- look over there."

Sure enough, the two men see their friends exiting 221B together. To their surprise, Holmes is looking relatively calm.

"Hullo, hullo, hullo, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson! How are you keeping this afternoon?" Hopkins calls eagerly. Lestrade sighs- Hopkins couldn't resist a chance to say hello to his friends, especially when his mentor- a certain Sherlock Holmes- was involved.

"Good afternoon Inspector Hopkins, Lestrade." Holmes addresses, his arm interlinked with Watson's. "We were just going out on an errand. Watson here has been driving me crazy today."

Lestrade blinks. "Wait, the good doctor- driving you crazy? Well, this day has gone from good to downright strange."

"Any reason, Lestrade?" Watson asks, gently disengaging his arm from his companion's in concern.

"I'm fine, Watson, really- just a little curious as to what sort of day I'm having." The police officer admits.

"Yes, sir- you haven't shouted at anyone today." Hopkins adds. "I think someone's trying to infiltrate the Yard."

"Pooh, don't be silly, Hopkins! It's Lestrade all right." Holmes retorts, loftily.

"I was only joking, sir..." The young inspector says, quietly.

"Hmm. Leave the humour to Watson, next time." The sleuth states.

Lestrade notices something on the ground- it looked like a smoking pipe. Looking at his friend's coat, he saw a large hole in Holmes' coat.

"Hey, Holmes, is that your pipe by your feet?"

Surprised, the detective looks down, and sees the object in question. "Why, yes it is, Inspector. And do not bother telling me I did not see it. I know there is a hole in my coat pocket." And with that, he stoops down to retrieve it.

Only as he does so, he loses his balance, and falls onto the pavement with a 'SMACK!'

"Holmes!"

...

Thankfully, the most the detective suffers is a bleeding nose and a wounded ego. Thankfully, his gloves prevented him from scraping his hands.

Once Lestrade is sure the detective is (largely) unhurt, he chuckles.

"Well, well, Holmes, I did warn you that someday your pride will come before a fall." He teases.

The detective glares at him. "What will it take for you to avoid getting this out to Mycroft and Gregson?"

And that is how Inspector G. Lestrade ends the day with a delicious steak pie from Mrs Hudson.


	17. Tree Trouble

From mrspencil: The irregulars want a Christmas tree

...

"Please, Mr 'Olmes?"

I stifle a snigger at my companion's look: it has transgressed from its usual austerity to one of alarm.

"Well, I"-

"I don't see the harm boys," I tell them, kindly, and they all begin cheering happily. They had been pestering Holmes about the matter for quite some time now, and I feel it is not fair on them. Still jabbering their thanks, they all stampede down to the kitchen for some of Mrs Hudson's Christmas baking- specifically, mince pies and cookies.

They do smell heavenly...

"Oh for Heaven's sake, Watson, stop fantasising about our landlady's baking, and help me!" Holmes snaps. I reluctantly close the door to block the scent, before looking at my friend, who is glaring at me like a much- wronged terrier ready to bite its perpetrator's ankle. Suddenly realising the irony of my simile, I start giggling like a schoolboy, which only incenses Holmes further.

"Watson! I had asked for your help, and you're just standing there laughing at me as though I am some fool!" He snaps, before he snatches his pipe off the mantel and lights it, now in an ill humour.

Feeling guilty for setting him off, I gently pat his shoulder. "I'm sorry, old chum," I say sincerely. "I wasn't laughing at you directly, per se, I just"- I quickly explain about the joke that had concurred, and the sleuth just sighs in response.

"In God's name, man- you may have a pawky sense of humour, but you have a very childish attitude." He huffs, but he manages to stop sulking, at least. "Now, do you wish to help me, old man, or laugh at my expense?"

"I will willingly endeavour to assist," I tell him, and he smiles at me.

"Thank you. Now, where did you get our tree from, doctor?"

"...the attic, Holmes?" I remind him. "Do you not remember? You declined to help me with taking it down, and I had to get Mrs Hudson to help?"

Evidently, he does remember this event due to him suddenly cursing in fury at his bad luck. "Now am I supposed to get a tree for them, Watson?"

I can't help but shake my head in amusement. "Oh Holmes, what am I meant to do with you? Come on, grab your coat- we're going tree shopping!"

...

About two hours, multiple languages of cursing and dozens upon thousands of loose, piercing pine needles later, Holmes and I manage to give the Irregulars their Christmas tree. They are thrilled, and immediately start decorating it with all sorts of miscellaneous and assorted items collected- lost purses, broken necklaces, worn- out shoes and all sorts of baubles they had pickpocketed from rich citizens of London.

Right at the very top of the tree, they had placed an old deerstalker that Holmes thought he had disposed of in spring.

"Well, Holmes, it may not be fancy like ours, but it is certainly something." I whisper.

"Indeed- though why would they have a deerstalker on the top?"

I grin, and wink at the Irregulars at Holmes' confused expression. Well perhaps it's time he found out how much those children adore him...


	18. Risks and Chances

From cjnwriter: Gambling

...

"Ha-ha! I win again!" I exclaim in triumph.

"Oh drat!" Gregson exclaims furiously, throwing down his cards in fury. "Lestrade, does this not bother you at all that this lunatic's beating us constantly?"

Lestrade just shrugs. "He beats me at my job, Gregson. I hardly see why losing one card game to him is so significant to you."

"But he's won every round we've played! We'll be broke before morning, and our wives will have our heads on platters!"

"Relax, Gregson- just have some fun!" I tell them, grinning wildly, even though my head is splitting. Why on earth I was doing this, I had no idea. But I wanted to keep going with it. "'Sides, Gregson, it's not your fault I'm smarter than you." I smile again, and feel myself swaying.

"How much have you drunk?" Lestrade asks me, and I cannot look him in the eyes in that moment, out of pure sheepishness.

"...um, I lost count, Inspector."

He shakes his head. "Really, Holmes- how on God's green earth you're still conscious is a miracle in itself. How are you feeling? And be honest."

Before I can insist that I am fine, I sway again, and feel a sudden wave of nausea sweep over me. Thankfully, it passes within seconds of it arriving, but I feel my stomach churn, nonetheless, when I hear the door opening and closing. It is Watson!

"Hello, Holmes!" He calls cheerfully, setting my head off in a headache and I curse his timing. "Is everything alright?"

Beside me, both Gregson and Lestrade freeze to the spot, cards fanned in their hands. I try to call back to my friend, but I suddenly feel another wave of nausea strike, and I try to fight it rapidly, knowing all too well Watson wouldn't want to deal with a sick sleuth like I.

I deduce his uneasiness from his few movements downstairs, but I cannot reassure him- without assuring the carpets gaining a 'new colour.' I groan quietly as I hear him climb the stairs.

"Holmes, you haven't set something on fire, have you?" He asks me cautiously as he opens the door, and freezes in his tracks.

"Don't be a fool, Watson- I wouldn't be in it if I had!" I snap, to which he just sighs in response.

"Well, why are Lestrade and Gregson here then?" He demands, putting his hands on his hips, like the grumpy mother hen he is.

"I invited them, of course!"

"...well, now I know the worst- you're drunk." He sighs in exasperation.

"Yesiree!" I exclaim happily, before I plummet into Mrs Hudson's rug.

"Oh for God's sake- that fool's had it!" Gregson snaps, leaping to his feet.

I watch, head spinning and splitting simultaneously as Lestrade rises also, before he helps Watson lift me to my chair and settle me in it. He then crosses the threshold, says something to Lestrade, although what that is, I did not catch. Then he closes the door.

I cannot help but let out a whimper as the door closes, sending vibrations through my head. Oh God, that will hurt like hell later. I reflect.

Suddenly a gentle hand runs through my hair, and I remember when I was a child and not well, my brother would do a similar gesture to reassure me.

Watson is not Mycroft, but his touch is soothing, and I soon find myself relaxing, in spite of the pain I was in.

"So, you daft idiot, did you lose our rent again?" He asks me.

"Course not. I won every game this time!" I protest.

"Even though you're intoxicated? I'm impressed, Holmes. Perhaps I should drag you to an army reunion!" He teases, before putting an arm round my shoulders in sympathy. "But there was no need to get yourself so drunk whilst gambling, you silly old sod." But this last statement is declared with fondness, rather than any malice.

"If it helps, I'll save my 'I told you so' for tomorrow."

"I'd rather it went unsaid at all- but, seeing as how I was betting all of this month's rent tonight, I'll accept you God-sent offer." I reply, and settle down to sleep off my headache.

Before I do, I feel a benign pat on my shoulder.


	19. Twelfth Night - or What You Deduce

From I'm Nova: Twelfth Night.

...

"Hm, this case is getting very intriguing, is it not, my dear Watson?"

"Yes, certainly, Holmes," I say, though I am as riddled with questions as ever. I watch as he investigates the stage very carefully.

Holmes and I had been called in by a theatre director to solve a very peculiar case- every time the company put on a performance of Shakespeare, the actors came off again, each of them thinking they were the characters they played.

Lestrade recommended us to help after an actor playing Hamlet had nearly stabbed the theatre director, and now, it looks as though we're getting nowhere.

Suddenly, I hear a commotion, and from backstage, a man dressed in fine clothes glides out, and takes centre stage. He opens his mouth and declares boldly and yet defeatedly.

"If music be the food of love, play on,

Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die."

"Duke Orsino." I mutter under my breath. "Holmes, we're in Twelfth Night now!"

"How very fitting," He drawls. "This is Twelfth Night, Watson- the evening of Epiphany. You and my brother will, of course, recognise that date for other reasons."

I do indeed.

"I'm just glad this isn't the Scottish Play again." I joke weakly.

"Or Romeo and Juliet- I do not wish to stomach such _sentiment_." He practically snarls the last word, catching even me by surprise. "Now, Watson, how well do you know the play?"

"Um...I do know this one, Holmes."

"Good. Now act."

"I beg your pardon, Holmes?"

"No time for explanations, man! Just act as Curio!" He hisses, and he shoves me near to the actor who is acting the Duke all too well.

"Will you go hunt, my lord?" I ask, after a moment of hesitation to ensure my line was correct.

"What, Curio?" The actor sighs in a lovesick manner.

"The hart." I answer. To my relief, I do not feel like Curio. Holmes must have just been testing a theory.

He admits that he is, but he complains I am not worthy of those few lines I had been given at all as we embark a cab.

"I am a biographer, a doctor and your supervisor, Holmes. If you expect me to be an actor as well, then"-

"No, no, Watson. My comment, although a sting to your pride, does reveal a key clue to this case. I need a willing volunteer who excels at acting."

"Why not elect yourself, Holmes? You are better an actor than I."

"I am also better at deducing than you." He retorts. Feeling stung at my friend's comments, I just huff and look out of the window, admiring the streets. I do not care to talk to my companion at this moment, and I am sure he does not wish to communicate, either.

However, I do feel a cold, clammy hand cover my own and squeeze it in a kindly fashion, as though its owner is aware he has upset me.

A warm feeling blossoms in my chest, and I turn back round to give my dear friend a smile, to show that I have lost all anger, and no longer wish to quarrel with him.

His only words to me that whole journey back to Baker Street were this:

"I am relieved you are a terrible actor, Watson. I count on your sincerity in both our work and our friendship."

He may have made another comment about my poor acting skills, but that sentiment is strangely heartfelt- and earnest, too.


	20. Coded Letter

From Aleine Skyfire: Letters.

...

Dear Sherlock Holmes,

Perhaps it's been too long between us, and I was hoping that maybe we could re-establish our

Liaison, what do you think? I think we have a lot to catch up on. I've heard you've now

Established yourself at 211B Baker Street. Perhaps I could drop in and visit? If it's not too much

Anxiety on your behalf- but I guess you're not one to get anxious, old boy. Let me know as

Soon as possible, old chum. I will eagerly await your response, and I shall

Endeavour to keep myself free of engagements.

How are things, by the way? I hear you are rooming with a doctor now. He does sound like a good,

Enthusiastic man. I would like to meet him, if at all possible. I'll be alright with it if he does not

Like this proposition, Sherlock. Hope you aren't driving him to Bedlam! I hope to see you again,

Possibly. If you are willing.

May God send you the best, as do I, old friend, and I eagerly await the chance to meet again.

Endeavour to keep yourself out of cases when I come, wouldn't you?

Yours sincerely,

Victor Trevor.

...

Holmes is in silence as he quietly reads the oddly structured note, and he suddenly curses when the full meaning of the note hits him.

Damn the good doctor's rounds! But Holmes knows that Victor cannot wait any longer. This is a more urgent letter than the one he last sent him- his old friend needs him.

So he leaves a hastily scrawled note for Watson and Mrs Hudson, revealing he has to run an urgent errand, and he also leaves some shillings from his pocket as a clue, before dashing downstairs to hail a cab.

His friend's life was hanging by a thread.


	21. A Cursed Blizzard

From mrspencil: a blizzard on Dartmoor

...

I stand alone near the mire, haunted by thoughts of wickedness and corruption; not running through my blood, but I still remember the touches of evil on my body, and I feel my skin prickle at the memory. Holding a bunch of violets in my left hand, I say:

"Hello, Rodger, it's me again. It's Harriet."

At once, a cold breeze picks up and I suddenly feel snowflakes settling on my arms, and it is there, upon the mire, I see my late first husband standing there, giving me a look of resentment. His brow deepens, and the snowflakes whirl faster and faster round me.

"Rodger, please! I know you are angry at me for going against what we planned- but I only agreed to scare Sir Henry away, not kill him! Even then, you forced me into agreeing, Rodger." I say, allowing my tone to go much colder than the blizzard round me- and that is a lot to beat.

"Even if you did force me to do things I did not desire to, Rodger, I did not wish you to die- especially the way you had done, and I may not be responsible for what happened...but, I'm sorry things turned out this way." I refuse to cower away from the man who had once brought me fear and misery, and stand as defiantly as I will allow.

The cold, slithery man I had once shared my nuptial life with continues to scowl back at me- with his cold, beady eyes. I feel shivers sneak up my spine and fear squirm into my stomach. He hates me- he loathes me.

But I cannot reciprocate those feelings towards him.

He may be a cruel, horrible man, but that cruelty was brought on by desperation and megalomania. There are worse people in this world than he.

That is why I am here.

I drop the flowers beside my husband's final resting place, and tell him: "I just want to say, Rodger, before one of us goes"-

The blizzard pace increases rapidly, the cold biting into my arms like tiny snakes, and cutting me off from my sentiments. His eyes are now glowing a red-white hot from Hellish fury.

"-a Merry Christmas, my dear!" I shout above the howling winds and the snowflakes shooting my tongue.

At once, the blizzard slows right down before slowly stopping. I cover my face with my arm as this transition unfolds, and once the snow clears, I see my late spouse on the mire, still standing on the exact spot he drowned- or so I heard.

He is no longer glaring at me, but I see a much softer look in his eyes. He looks somewhat remorseful for his past actions, and he looks at me.

I remember that look. We shared when we first met.

And it is our last shared gaze too.

...

As my first husband slowly disappears from view, footsteps behind me indicate that my second husband has found me.

He doesn't say a word to me, but he instead wraps his arms round me, mindful as ever, of my bump. I bury my head into his shoulder, and reflect on my late husband.

After this, I saw no further incidents of unusual blizzards arriving, and my husband no longer haunts the mire.

Just my memories of him.

...

A/N: In this story, Mrs Stapleton is Harriet Stapleton, and she married Henry Baskerville shortly after Holmes and Watson solved the case of the Hound of the Baskervilles. I wanted to take a supernatural approach to the prompt, concerning the case it's linked with, and it was the only cool idea I had, so...anyway, I only own the unborn Baskerville- everyone else belongs to Conan Doyle.

Hope you enjoyed reading! Thank you, and Merry Christmas to all!


	22. A Criminal Christmas

From Aleine Skyfire: Criminals are allowed to celebrate Christmas, too!

...

"C'mon, Kitty, one more time!"

"Yeah, you sing real pretty!"

"Just one more?"

Kitty Winter sighs. "Honestly, boys," She teases. "I'm not a music box!" Still, the criminals beg for another round of 'Bleak Midwinter'. "Alright, but this is the last time, okay? One of you deserves a turn." With that, Kitty began to sing.

" _In the bleak midwinter,_

 _Stormy winds may blow_

 _Earth stood hard as iron_

 _Water like a stone_

 _Snow had fallen snow on snow_

 _Snow on, snow on, snow_

 _In the bleak midwinter_

 _Long, long ago..."_

A loud, gruff chorus of cheering joins in as she continues to sing the carol they had been so enraptured with. Clanging of iron of rock also rings true to the rhythm of the song. Even a few deep voiced thugs at the far end joined in, resulting in a strange criminal choir of murderers not yet executed, rapists, petty thieves, and others like Kitty who had assaulted people and permanently transformed their victims' lives for the worse.

Kitty finishes the song to a rapture of loud cheering and wolf-whistling, to which she bows, like an actor performing Macbeth's soliloquy.

"Thank you so much, gentlemen- you've been too kind." She says politely. "Now, who wants to go next?"

Silence echoes round the cells of Scotland Yard for a long moment. One could hear a penny drop due to the ongoing silence.

Then a voice spoke, in a charming and courteous tone.

"Ahem- if you wouldn't mind, Miss Winters, I would like to partake in some singing."

"Thank you, Mr R- you are a true gentleman in this hellhole we have to spend Christmas in." Kitty smiles wickedly. The thugs watch as a small, black rat climbs onto Kitty's cell bars. The rat is wearing- much to their astonishment- a black suit, a top hat, and carrying a walking cane. He flashes a smile- cold, calculating, slimy and sinful- all rolled into one upwards twist of his lips. His eyes flash eagerly at the rapt attention fixed upon him. He clears his throat with a deep throated, growly cough, instructs a choir of mice and...a lizard, nearby to give him music on various instruments.

Then, he began to sing.

" _I heard the bells on Christmas day_

 _Their old familiar carols play_

 _And serious and bitter their songs repeat_

 _Of war on earth good will to Lucifer_

 _And the knells are ringing (war on earth)_

 _Like a choir they're singing (war on earth)_

 _In my heart I hear them (war on earth)_

 _War on earth, good will to Satan_

 _And in despair I bowed my head_

 _There is peace on earth I said_

 _For love is strong and mocks the song..."_

...

The audience start cheering at Ratigan's rendition of 'I Heard the Bells' and they request another song, one that really mocked Sherlock Holmes- the name the criminal underworld spat on and cursed to lay in an early grave.

"Well, that can be arranged," the black rodent smiles evilly. "But on one condition, I include Basil in it."

On seeing their blank faces, he sighs in annoyance at their ignorance, and explains, blatantly. "He is as much my enemy as Holmes as yours."

"Oh, of course you can! It's Christmas, mate. The time of year to extend the common courtesy to scum like us- trashing one's enemy. Go ahead!"

Ratigan willingly plunged into his interpretation of 'Silent Night' using it to allow both Holmes and that wretched mouse Basil some humiliation behind their backs, and entertain his fellow criminals in the process.

They were so pleased with him, that they didn't mind that he was a rat.

In fact, he even decided to spoil the Inspector's fun by having his men steal away mince pies, whisky (for the holidays...) and any other food that they had found 'lying around.'

Cracked, dry lips eagerly downed wine and whisky, and bellies fed up of containing bread and onions scoffed mince pies and candies that had been destined for the Inspectors of Scotland Yard.

Yep, a perfect Christmas for those holed away within the four walls of jail and not on the streets or in their hideouts.

...

I only own my (terrible) version of 'I Heard the Bells'. I hope you enjoyed this, and thank you for reading and reviewing so far!


	23. 7th Napoleon

From Riandra: The seventh Napoleon

...

Of all the weird and wonderful things I have dealt with during my time with my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes in our lodgings at 221B, this had had to have been something else altogether. But allow me to proceed from the beginning.

I was about to sit down on my ever faithful armchair and relax with a new book when a gunshot screams through the air and I suddenly jump, grabbing a poker from the fire, my old military instincts quickly commandeering my brain, combined with my ultimate concern for Holmes' safety.

"Holmes!" I call out.

Nothing emerges, save for a loud muffled noise, and through my rising nerves, I cannot distinguish it, and I start racing up the stairs, fearful that I may find my dear flatmate bleeding to death in his quarters, and I unable to save him.

Footsteps not of my belonging make me freeze, and I look up in horror, wondering what was happening.

A hunchback-like figure looms over the top of the stairs. His clothes are coated in plaster, his face in sheepishness, and his posture in self- found doom.

"Holmes," I sigh in exasperation. "Don't bend your back like that, old man, or you'll do yourself a grave injury."

He straightens, whilst staring at me with his intense grey eyes. I shrink back a little at that ever unflinching gaze, before he coughs politely.

"I owe you much expiation for the noise, my dear fellow," he speaks, still giving me his infamous stare, but this time, I detect a hint of embarrassment.

"What have you done?" I ask him. "I'm not going to pack my bags and leave if you shot someone Holmes- unless it's one of our acquaintances."

"No, no, Watson- nothing of the sort. I can assure you that my target was not a living person."

I breathe a sigh of relief at that- until he draws out a hammer.

"I heard, Watson, that someone had placed a sparrow in a new Napoleon bust." He tells me, eyes wide, and I realise something my doctor's instinct should have told me previously.

"Holmes, what have you taken?"

"...sugar, from our dear landlady's kitchen."

I take a deep breath, count to ten, and when I next speak, I find myself shouting;

"For God's sake, Holmes!"

...

A/N: Not really proud of that ending- this prompt was a bit of writer's block for me, so if it's readable, then yay! I hope you enjoyed, and feel liberal to review!

Disclaimer- I only own that doomed Napoleon bust.

No sparrows were harmed in the making of this oneshot.


	24. Aunt Cassiopeia

From mrspencil: an elderly relative arrives, unannounced.

...

"Cooie! Anyone here?"

Mycroft Holmes groans. He's forgotten that his aunt Cassiopeia is coming to visit today. He has no interest in dealing with her, as she was very old (indeed, she was his father's sister in law, and she was widowed. He is tempted to just say he is busy and that she should visit Sherlock instead, but before he can even stand up from his chair, she enters the room, wearing a floral green and pink dress, a brown shawl, and black ankle boots. She spots him from where she is standing, but any form of recognition is lost to her.

"Oh, hello! I'm looking for my nephew, Mycroft Holmes. He's a big boy, see and I can't see too well, so would you mind taking me to him, dearie?" She asks, politely. However, Mycroft notes with boredom that she has not got her spectacles balancing precariously on the end of her aquiline like, wart stubbed nose, as usual. Her eyes, once a soft earthy brown, had faded to slowly whiting orbs, with increasing inability to see properly without the aid of lenses.

"Ahem, Aunt Cassiopeia, you're not wearing your glasses," Mycroft tells her with feigned politeness.

"Oh- right, how silly of me!" She chuckles, and reaches into an oversized handbag for them, before fixing them to her nose, and looking at Mycroft again, before she begins chuckling again.

"Oopsies, I didn't realise I was talking to you, Mycroft! You should have said!"

"My apologies, auntie. So, how was your trip from France?" He asks her politely.

"Oh I enjoyed it, pigeon. I just wish the seas had been less rough on my journey." She beams at him, showing a too- toothless smile. Although the British government wants to grimace, he instead forces on a polite smile, trying to remember what his parents had taught him.

"So, did you visit Sherlock yet?" He questions.

"Oh my, yes! Gave me quite an exciting welcome- why, I opened the door to such a loud explosion, I thought my heart would jump out of my chest! And that doctor fellow he lodges with- such a nice fellow. Very handsome too... reminds me of my late husband, you know."

Mycroft blanches at this. He only prays he wouldn't think of his uncle Pollux whenever he sees Doctor Watson in the future, or else he may not be tempted to join Sherlock for Christmas or New Year in a hurry.

"Now where did I put it...?"

"Put what, Auntie?" _'Perhaps her jar of marbles.'_ Mycroft thinks, wryly. His family are very strange beings- even his little brother, the one person he had been very close to in his youth. He had never understood Sherlock, no matter how hard he tried to.

"Your resent, of course! Oh dear, Sherlock's was easier to find than this..." She rifles through her too- large handbag before whistling the French National anthem in triumph.

"Forgive me, lovey- I've been careless with present transportation this year. Here you are."

She gives him a cake- a beautiful and rich looking fruit cake, and some brand new pens, all embossed silver.

"I remember you complaining to me in a letter that your brother constantly steals your pens whenever he visits you." She says.

"He mentions that he always loses his pens in his mess- but I'm certain he does it to spite me."

"Well, brothers are brothers. My husband and your father quarrelled over things I didn't understand- much like you and Sherlock. But I know you boys still love each other."

Mycroft says nothing- he doesn't want to readily admit it, but his aunt is right. He does love his baby brother, even if he just gets on his nerves half the time.

He orders for tea to be made for two, and he puts important British affairs on hold for nearly an hour, whilst he has tea, cake and conversation with his strange and forgetful aunt.

And as he stifles a -not unkind- chortle on her losing her spectacles in her tea, and she laughing at her silly and unfortunate mishap, he decides that he definitely will never, in a million years, understand his own family.

But he knows it's better that way. They surprise him more than sudden war declarations ever could, anyway.

...

A/N: There you have it! Christmas Eve on New Year- I suck at updating. But I hope you enjoyed this weird anecdote I cooked up. I figured I give the elder Holmes brother a bit of spotlight in this- hope he wasn't too OOC.

Disclaimer: I only own Aunt Cassiopeia and the (briefly mentioned) Uncle Pollux. Mycroft belongs to Conan Doyle.


	25. Christmas Party at 221B

From mrspencil: celebrations

...

"Mrs Hudson, your turkey is divine! Much better than my wife's cooking!" Lestrade praises.

"Thank you, sir!" Mrs Hudson beams.

I smile as I watch our friends chatting and laughing. We have invited Stamford, Lestrade, Hopkins, Gregson, Mycroft Holmes and Victor Trevor round for Christmas lunch at 221B, and it appears everyone is enjoying themselves.

Except Holmes.

"Cheer up, old fellow!" I tell him, turning to my left, but he just glares at me, with what I dare describe as a pout that a child of four would envy.

"He was like this in earlier days," Trevor recalls. "I recall he was one of the few people I met who are very judgmental about the festive season."

I did not wish for Holmes to be miserable, but I had no idea how to cheer him up when there are guests present. I was so distracted by my problem that I accidentally saw my knife too far into one of Mrs Hudson's best china plates, causing everyone in the room to stare at me, and Mrs Hudson to give me the ever dreaded, ominous 'if that plate is damaged, may God help you,' look, and I feel my cheeks warm in embarrassment.

"My apologies, everyone- I was momentarily distracted." I explain- only to hear Holmes snickering softly beside me, and if it weren't for the fact I was in the presence of our good landlady, three Scotland Yard Inspectors and the British Government, I would most definitely have stabbed him with my knife. Instead, I try to look remorseful.

"Now I better see to the pudding- I wouldn't be long, gentlemen." We watch her exit the room to retrieve her famous Christmas pudding from the kitchen.

...

Once everyone had resumed eating, and Mrs Hudson absent, I turn round to glare at my friend, who is still smiling despite my annoyance. "Holmes, what is so amusing to you?"

"Your face, Watson- I have never seen such a man look so foolish, man. Just be grateful you're still alive after that dreadful attempt to entertain us."

I wonder why my friend has suddenly perked up in humour- this does not seem like it at all. It is only as this curiosity pops into my head when I notice that Trevor is suddenly trying, and failing, to look innocent.

He must be responsible for Holmes' mood turn.

I am about to ask what he has done, when my dear friend suddenly rises, and starts Highland dancing with no prior warning to anyone. I groan as I remember our time in Scotland a few weeks back, with Lestrade not only bearing witness to his oddities, he had also been amused.

It appears that now everyone is amused, for the Inspectors start roaring with laughter, and even Mycroft lets a few guffaws pass his lips at the mere sight of his little brother fully getting into the Highland fling.

"What have you done, man?" I hiss to Trevor, who merely shrugs in amusement.

"One thing I learned about Holmes, Doctor Watson, is that he goes into a Bedlam worthy fit of activity whenever he consumes too much sugar." He grins wickedly. "So I may or may not have put sugar in his wine when he wasn't looking."

"You devil!" I say, but he just chuckles.

"Oh, don't worry Doctor, he'll be fine. Besides, you wanted him to perk up."

I couldn't argue with that, even though I didn't approve of his methods. But the fact that he had done this deed without my flatmate noticing was admirable- I always got caught out trying to sneak sleeping pills in his tea or coffee.

We both burst out laughing as Holmes start singing 'Lo, a Rose E'er Blooming' whilst attempting to play 'Silent Night' on his violin and balancing on one foot.

"By Jove, he's gone mad!" Lestrade splutters.

"Correction- he is mad. He just needs a little encouragement to unleash the full extent." Trevor admits with a smile. "I just hope he doesn't hurt himself." He admits.

"At least he has a personal physician on hand," I remind them, and they laugh- just as Mrs Hudson returns with the cake.

"Here we are, if you're not too full, gentlemen, we now-MR HOLMES!" A loud shatter and squelch accompany her exclamation.

My dear friend stops in his tracks and gazes at her, looking a bit sheepish, to say the least.

"What do you think you're doing?" She asks.

"Being an utter fool, Mrs Hudson- I do apologise." Holmes says, having started to recover a little from his fit of energetic madness. One look from him at Trevor and I, and I realise he knew about what had transpired.

"Sugar in my wine, Trevor? I should have seen it coming old chap."

"You honestly did not know"-

"When I did, it was too late." He admits. "I am only thankful you are a friend out to use me for sport than an enemy set on poisoning me."

"How the deuce did you manage to do it, Trevor?" I ask him. "I've lived with him for years, and he still catches me out if I dare try and put pills into his tea or coffee!"

"Well, I have my secrets, he has his." Trevor replies loftily, earning a glare from the two of us.

"Now, Mr Holmes, are you quite finished?"

"Yes, my apologies about the cake, Mrs Hudson. But no fear, Mycroft has a spare with him."

"Yes. Knowing you, little brother, I figured you would be responsible some mishap or other." He confirms coolly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mrs Hudson, I shall fetch said replacement."

...

And so, we manage to wolf down Mycroft's fruitcake between all eight of us. I don't recall exactly, but I think Lestrade and Mycroft ate the most. The latter was no surprise to either Holmes or myself, but the former- even Holmes admits he failed to see Lestrade as being one to eat his weight in pudding.

Afterwards, we all retire to the living room to play 'Squeak Piggy Squeak' on the condition we forbid both Holmes brothers from being the farmer, for obvious reasons.

Somehow, however, my friend does end up the farmer, and he is able to best all of us at it, even though I later found out my cologne was responsible for Holmes identifying me before I even squeaked.

This is why knowing a detective with such high abilities such as Holmes has its downsides.


	26. Rescued From Lonliness

From mrspencil: alone

A continuation of the 12th December. I feel this strayed from the prompt a little, but hopefully this satisfies it. Enjoy, and thank you for reading.

...

After my conversation with Cecil, I feel even more miserable. I look at my clothes, and growl. I swear I was going to kill Holmes when I next see him.

I huddle up on my 'bed' tracing patterns in the moisture on the stone walls in my cell, missing Mrs Hudson's terrific cooking, a warm fire, a comfy bed with sheets and pillows, and as much as I hate to admit it, I do miss Holmes.

He did get me in here, but I wish he would come back.

I drift off into an uneasy sleep, interrupted only by the other inmates snoring, and my own war wounds throbbing up a fit.

"Holmes, please," I plead to the open window. "I wish you'd come back old boy."

All night, I wait for my friend to return and bail me out, but no one comes for me. Is this what it's like to be an abandoned puppy, left alone in a miserable hell, with no concept of abandonment?

...

A gentle hand shakes me awake the next morning, and I swat it away.

"...go 'way, Holmes- just go back to bed..." I mumble.

"How can I, Watson, when we are not at home?"

Suddenly registering my surroundings, I open my eyes, and shoot up- only for my shoulder to start aching again.

"Hey, take it easy old chap," He advises me. His face is still cast in a mask of aloofness, but his eyes betray this façade. Reaching for his coat, he unfastens it and suddenly drapes it round my shoulders as I shakily rise.

"Why, Holmes?" I ask.

"Well, I have no need for it, Watson. I"-

"Not the coat, you fool- why did you leave me here all night?"

"Watson, I owe you more than a hundred apologies for leaving you here. It turned out you had no need to be here."

"You what?" I snap.

"I know you are furious, Watson, but I promise you, I did not know until after I caught the fiend."

It is then that I notice that his clothes are covered in a lot of mud, and a scarlet substance that drains my own from my cheeks.

"It's not mine, Watson." He informs me casually, before putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Listen, I do feel great remorse for your suffering, old fellow. It is no wonder the Underworld curses me and my name, if they must endure such terrible accommodation." He jokes, but I do not smile. I have suffered enough- my clothes are soaked with moisture from both my body and the cell; my stomach is protesting wildly and persistently; my skin is half covered in grime; and my war wounds are being unforgivable.

...

With another case solved, I storm off to have a bath, not saying another word to my friend. I spend longer than usual, getting dirt from my fingernails, and muck from my hands. By the time I had done this, my stomach had quietened a little, although it was still empty. Donning my dressing gown and clean clothes, I take my filthy garments away to be thrown out, as they were only rags from Holmes' disguise closet.

When I arrive for breakfast, my mouth is watering at the sight of sausages sizzling away on the plate, and a cup of freshly brewed coffee awaiting me, and I tuck in greedily.

...

Once my stomach is satisfied, and my body cleaned, I feel much better, despite not having had any sleep- until I realise that my patients are waiting for me. Cursing aloud, I dash round the room, in an attempt to look presentable.

"Watson, what on earth are you doing?"

"I'm late, goddamn it, Holmes! My patients are expecting me this morning!"

"No they wouldn't be, my dear friend. I sent a telegram to your colleague, Anstruther, who is more than happy to see to your patients as well as his own."

"But Holmes, I'm fine!"

"No, you are not. It is a dangerous game to contradict a man of logic such as myself, doctor. I would have thought you had learned that lesson within weeks of moving in. Clearly, I am mistaken."

"But why did you, Holmes? As a doctor, I must see my patients!"

"And as my friend, I must see to your wellbeing. You have not had a singular wink of sleep, my dear boy. Please, stay in our rooms and recuperate from last night's atrocity I left you in."

In the end, I can only agree, for who in the world, despite Mycroft Holmes and Mrs Hudson, can win an argument against my flatmate?

But as I settle to sleep in my quarters, I must admit- Holmes may be a man of limited social capabilities, but he does know when I should and should not be alone.


	27. Silencing Symphony - Part 1

From Sparky Dorian: The one important thing that Holmes forgot.

...

Peeking through the red curtains of St James' Hall was definitely one of my scarier moments, aside from the fact we were dealing with a music- obsessed murderer for our current case.

Dozens of people- men in neatly pressed black suits and ties, and women in dainty shoes and colourful dresses- the thought of them seeing us makes my stomach churn violently.

A hand touches my arm, and I jump in fright, nearly falling through the curtain, and in an attempt to avoid this, I somehow manage to trip over my feet and entangled limbs are suddenly strangled by the velvet barriers.

Someone helps me up again, and I offer a shaking smile to the person- a young female harpist, named Maud Upston Wood.

"Are you alright, Doctor?" She asks me in concern.

"I am not very convinced I'll manage this concert." I confess. "I do wish Holmes didn't force me into doing this."

Miss Wood adjusts her gold coloured skirts, and glances at me, noting my face in particular. "You're very pale, Doctor. Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"Ah, there you are, Maude! Doctor Watson. Ready for tonight's performance?"

"Irene, I don't think the doctor's very confident to do it. Are you sure we should let him play?"

"Well, nerves are a big part of the performance, my dear Maude. Though if you really cannot cope, Doctor, I can call in a friend to take your place."

"No, no, I'll honour my vow." I tell them bravely; though I do feel those words were somewhat hollow.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson. I have been looking forward to hearing you play the piano." Irene informs me with a purr. "Now, where has Mr Sherlock Holmes disappeared to?"

"I did warn him to be here for when the curtains came up!" Miss Wood hisses irritably, glaring at some boys hovering at her harp.

"He's just gone to get his violin." I rely. I wish I had said something earlier, but I had been unable to speak without the fear of being sick. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my friend becoming me violently, his movements wild and gesticulating.

"Excuse me a moment, ladies," I tell them, and I dash to the wings to see what the matter is.

"Holmes, what's wrong?" I ask urgently

"I...I forgot," He whispered in fright. He was looking as though he would be sick with fear, and I felt sorry for him.

"What did you forget, Holmes?"

"My violin. How am I meant to play without it?" He asks me.

I sigh with only the patience a certain Sherlock Holmes could bring out in me, and I give him a stern look.

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I was too embarrassed. Plus you looked as though you would..." He trails off, clearly uncertain to continue.

"Yes, alright, Holmes. Don't panic, old boy. We'll sort this." I assure him. "If I make arrangements with the manager, then maybe you can get a message out to 221B and have it delivered here."

"Thank you, Watson. You are right- there may be hope yet..."

I take his hand in mine, and give it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Do you feel better?"

He wipes his eyes on his sleeve with his free hand, reminding me of a child briefly, before he manages a nod.

"You're a silly boy, you know," I tell him fondly.

...

Although Irene was displeased, and Maude ready to blow the roof off and strangle Holmes, we manage to work out a way to have his violin delivered from 221B, as he refused to borrow any spares.

"You're just lucky you're helping us!" The manager grumbles. "I hoped Mr Holmes was more professional than this!"

"I beg to differ, my good sir, but Holmes is the most professional sleuth I know. It was an honest mistake- we all have those."

"Doctor Watson is correct, Mr Wright." Irene jumps in.

"Don't interfere, Mrs Adler."

But he leaves the matter be, and he storms off to rearrange things.

However, we needn't bothered, for there was a great commotion.

"Excuse me, but you shouldn't be here- performers only!"

"If you think I'm leaving without doing one simple errand- the sole reason I am here, you can think again!" A familiar voice booms.

"Mrs Hudson!" I gasp, whirling round in shock. There she is, in dripping glory, her shawl covering her burden. Holmes, shocked, goes over to inquire the matter, despite his nerves.

"I believe this belongs to you, Mr Holmes." She tells him, unwrapping her bundle to reveal...

"My Stradivarius!" My friend exclaims in relief, and he envelopes the landlady in an embrace of relief.

"Goodness gracious, Mr Holmes!" She exclaims, surprised at the sudden change in affection, whilst Irene, Maude and I all sigh in relief.

"I do apologise Mrs Hudson, for forcing you out in the rain. Allow me to make it up to you."

...

As the curtains rise, Irene takes centre stage, and she aims a benevolent wink towards the front row, where three Scotland Yard Inspectors- Lestrade, Hopkins and Gregson- Mycroft Holmes, my friend's elder brother, and of course Mrs Hudson herself.

She launches into a beautiful and haunting melody, with Holmes joining in on the violin. Maude and I play the harp and the piano respectively whenever the song reached softer notes.

By the end, we receive a standing ovation for our performance, and Holmes even gives Mrs Hudson credit for her kind gesture, earning her applause too.

As for the murderer, well, it turned out he wasn't even there. He had been killed by a violin bow in his heart- or so we thought...


	28. Silencing Symphony- Part 2

From Spockologist: Solution

Continuation of the last prompt. Enjoy reading, and please review!

...

"And that, Lestrade, is how the conductor nearly killed Miss Maude Upston Woods- by applying dimethyl mercury to her harp strings."

"Of all the nerve!" The inspector gasps.

"It appears that Mr John Thackeray is responsible for poisoning the musician's instruments after attending performances. He would have done the same to the piano keys and my violin strings had not I realised in time. And of course, the dear doctor was able to save Miss Upston Woods from death- though she is currently recovering under his care."

"Amazing! Though, what happened to the murderer? You told me he would be in the audience."

"Ah, that was a miscalculation, Inspector. He took the real Mr Wright prisoner, and locked him in a broom closet, after which he assumed the man's identity, by donning a disguise."

"And the violin 'catastrophe'- was that part of your plan?"

"Yes, Lestrade," Though I can tell my friend is lying through his teeth.

"Excellent Mr Holmes! It's a pity we were too late to save the others, but at least you and Watson saved a young lady and the concert, plus caught this villain."

"Yes. Well, good day, Lestrade." And my friend shuts the door, before turning to me. "How is she, Watson?"

"She'll live, Holmes," I declare. "Thank the Lord."

Just then, another knock at the door suddenly manifests.

Holmes grunts, and makes his over to it, muttering something about 'the Woman.'

He is right.

"I just came to congratulate you for stopping Mr Thackeray, Mr Holmes, and see how Maude is,"

She's on the couch. Come in," He invites grudgingly.

"Thank you."

"Irene! Whatcha doin' 'ere?" Maude asks groggily, from where I have been monitoring her.

"Well, I just came to see you -that is all. I hope you're doing better."

"Not 'eally, Ire. I was 'oping to 'allop his ears off for 'ttemptin' to kill me."

"She's a bit out of it at the moment, but she'll live." I assure quietly.

"Now, Ms Adler, how would you care to hear the solution of the case?" Holmes questions, clearly eager for some attention.

"Certainly."

I make tea and listen again as Holmes relives his deductions of the 'Silencing Symphony,' case, allowing me to refresh my notes and prepare it for writing and publication.


	29. Hot Cocoa, Mr Holmes?

From Aleine Skyfire: Hot chocolate

...

I smile at my husband's dearest friend, awkwardly huddled in the doorway, trying to preserve what warmth and dignity he could, with three or four shivering little children bundled in rags and scarves, and I feel my heart melt.

"I'm sorry Mr Holmes, for your wasted journey, but my husband urgently needed to see to a patient well out with London's radius, and he wouldn't be back for a few days. But please, do stay here and partake in some cocoa- your Irregulars too."

He manages a grateful smile as the children cheer, and my heart warms up again.

"Thank you, Mrs Watson." Holmes speaks, muffled by his muffler. "I do wish I had been more aware of the dear doctor's gallivant across the country."

"My apologies, Mr Holmes- I did not realise that you and John had plans."

Actually, there is a case I was hoping to investigate." He admits. "It is not a murder case, so I will wait until your husband returns."

I say nothing, but instead smile at the idea of Holmes sitting at 221B, waiting for John like a woeful terrier. He shall be dreadfully bored.

...

Soon, I prepare four mugs of hot chocolate, and hand one out to each Irregular, each giving me his own thanks as little, red fingers accept their beverages gratefully. I save Mr Holmes for last, and he manages a smile at me as I do so.

"Thank you kindly, Mrs Watson." He says.

"It is no trouble, Mr Holmes. Do you feel warmer?"

"Yes."

I bring blankets for them, and I have a fire lit so that they can warm up in the parlour. Thye sit there, sipping hot chocolate and shivering, whilst I question Holmes about the case.

"Well, Mrs Watson, it is a robbery we are investigating. It concerns the disappearance of a cab and its driver, an emerald brooch and an escaped cobra."

I listen to him tell me all about the case, and I cannot help but make notes of the details.

It was just as well I did, for when dear John returns earlier than expected, it is quickly discovered that Holmes has succumbed to a cold.

Strangely, John tells me that evening that when he tried to tend to the detective, the only thing Sherlock wanted was hot chocolate. I say nothing, but simply smile as I picture him in my mind.


	30. The Case of the Missing Bunny

From mrspencil: gloves, see-saw, and escaped rabbit

...

"Ouch! Why didn't I bring gloves?"

I swear when I see a small, ugly green coloured dagger piercing my thumb, drawing blood from it. Gently hovering the intrusion between my teeth, I bite down hard and yank.

Let's just say, I am most certainly glad that Gregson, Holmes and Watson are down in Cornwall solving a murder- well, I'm not really, I'd rather be with them right now- but at least I cannot be mocked for emitting an unmanly shriek at that tug I had given.

Hovering above my shoulder Hopkins notices, and silently offers me a pair of gloves.

"Why didn't you tell me you had gloves on you?" I ask him crossly, snatching them off and covering my hands, with relief filling my veins.

"You seemed too determined, sir..."

"Well, I'm not Mr Holmes, for crying out loud! That man is a feckless idiot at times!"

"He would say the same of you, sir."

"Oh be quiet!" I snap, though it is true- I cannot deny that. But why are we reduced to such a petty case whilst Gregson gets something more interesting?

Hopkins clears his throat- a gesture to swallow his hurt feelings. "So, where else could Lord Erasmus have gone, sir?"

I sigh huffily. "I have no idea, lad. Holmes would know- but mind you, he would bite our heads off for something so trivial, no matter how desperate we were."

"I know sir. Trying to find the Duchess of York's pet rabbit in Hyde Park will be difficult- especially since Lord Erasmus has a timid disposition..."

I look over at him- I do not recall hearing this fact at the manor of the Duchess, so either he must have heard something I missed, or he has...

"Well, do you have an idea on where he is?" I ask him, forcing myself to not think of Holmes right now.

...

But about three hours later, it was getting cold, dark, and we were both very hungry indeed. But the Duchess had an infamous temper, so the two of us were reluctant to call it a day and head back.

Poor Hopkins is looking worse for wear, however. He's yawning more, and he's fallen into two rose bushes and a delilah bush due to fatigue. What doesn't help is that he's got allergies, and they don't help him out very much.

"Go back to the manor, lad. You're sneezing like mad- not to mention you're going to be meeting the same fate as Sleeping Beauty. I'll keep looking a while longer."

"You're sure, sir?" He asks me worriedly, putting a hand on my shoulder in concern. "You can't stay here forever, sir."

"I know, but I'll last longer yet. Now go- it's an officer's orders."

He grins ruefully at me, before trudging his way out of the park, shivering from the cold.

...

I do miss his company, but I'd like to see him back at the Yard tomorrow with no implications of this odd adventure.

Soon enough, about half an hour to forty minutes later, I decide that I should retire, and then retreat. But I only get as far as a makeshift see saw when I notice a small movement huddled deep inside of the dark under the plaything.

"Eureka!" I cry triumphantly. "I have found you, my...what?"

Snuggled up close was a litter of five tiny rabbits all squirming round to get fed.

"Hello, hello, hello, what's this, then? Gender impersonation, running away from home, being a hedge whore and getting knapped in the process- all very serious crimes, but Scotland Yard is incapable of taking care of animal prisoners- save for that rat that constantly joins in with our inmates. Well, you're coming back with me."

So I use my coat to gently hold the rabbits in as a makeshift nest, taking care to disturb them as little as possible.

...

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Also, a little bit if Victorian sexual slang here from Lestrade to describe 'Lod Erasmus'- I am disgusted with my sense of humour. See definitions below:

Hedge whore- basically what it says on the tin

Knapped- Pregnant


	31. Overdue

From Sparky Dorian: A long-awaited moment.

...

"Come in, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson." I say, as I finish making tea. I hear, almost instantly, the all too familiar sound that mothers hear all too often in their lifetimes- shuffling feet on good carpet.

"Now, gentlemen, I believe you are due me an overdue rent?" I question, glancing at both of my tenants, who are looking not at me, but the floor beneath their feet.

"Yes," Doctor Watson says at last, breaking the silence. He takes small, precarious steps towards me, withdraws a white, dog eared envelope from the breast pocket of his coat, and holds it forwards.

"Thank you," I tell him, plucking it deftly from his Hippocrates bound hands with my weathered fingers. "I do hope that you gentlemen will learn to be more careful with your rent in future. I cannot afford to extend the same courtesy every time you are late with payment."

"We're dreadfully sorry, my dear Mrs Hudson." The good doctor apologises bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck as he steps back to join his fellow tenant.

"Indeed, Mrs Hudson- we promise it shall not happen again." Mr Holmes adds, speaking for the first time since he entered my domain. "We shall...head back to our rooms now. Come, Watson."

"On the contrary- I'm not finished with you two yet!" I shake my head at them, watching in amusement as they freeze, and both looking at me in horror. "I wish to show you that you are both forgiven for your mistake, and I hope you shall partake of some tea and cake."

I watch as the tension in their shoulders dissolve, and they nod, struck dumb, and I could not help smiling still at their expressions.

...

"Thank you very much for that, Mrs Hudson- it was most enjoyable." Doctor Watson informs me with a smile later that afternoon.

"Yes- certainly," Adds Mr Holmes. "I am indeed glad that we have not invoked your wrath further."

"And so you should be," I tell them, with a glint in my eye. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I have washing up to do, so be off!" I shoo them out of my kitchen, though they insist on offering to help me with this chore.

They do have an infamous reputation of being the worst tenants in London- especially Mr Holmes- but they are both good men at heart.

...

Finally, I finished! So sorry this took longer than it should! I hope you enjoyed the 2016 SHACC!


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